I’m in my mid-forties, but my parents are not baby-boomers. They were born in the mid-1930’s, and missed that generation by at least a dozen years. My mother was in her late 30’s by the time she gave birth to me in 1971 and then my sister in 1972 (she’d already had my three older […]
Ten things to remind me why I like working as a cashier in a grocery store:
- It’s my little contribution to the household income (and boy, we need it).
- It gets me out of the house, away from worries about Lilly and bills and writing and the state of the world.
- It’s my stand-in for a social life. Otherwise I probably wouldn’t see or talk to too many other souls. Not that I talk a lot; I listen more.
- 10% discount on groceries! It helps.
- Counting back change keeps my basic math skills sharp.
- Ringing up groceries can be like meditation or a good time for daydreaming. If I’m careful (and I’m not always), I can let my mind wander over the beeps and think about the book I’m reading (see #7), or what I’m writing, or pretty much anything I want to think about.
- I can get a lot of reading done. Really. I bring my Kindle, and in between customers or during slow times, I can get a few paragraphs in. It’s no worse than the young ones getting on their phones (which they do).
- Speaking of young ones, it’s a great opportunity for me to pick the minds of the younger generation (for when they turn up in my fiction), which I realized quite a while ago I know nothing about, except that they teethed on keyboards. What makes them tick? Turns out, there’s a lot of talk about college requirements, who’s dating who, and intense discussion of The Bachelor (females, anyway). Huh. I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same.
- I don’t take my job home with me. This is extremely important to me, and always has been. Once I leave the work place, my time is my own. Period.
- People-watching. Half the town makes their way through here on any given day, and there’s no end of interesting people (annoying or not) that have found their way into my Purple Notebook.
Bonus #11. It’s a pretty easy job. Really, it’s so easy, a caveman can do it.
Whoa, easy there, caveman. Just kidding. I still screw up a lot, and there’s still plenty left to learn.
If you’re a writer (or any kind of artist), what’s your day job? Do you like it? Does it support your art, or stifle you? Leave a comment, and we’ll talk about it!
I’m often perusing various outlets for books–my local bookstores, the Barnes & Noble a few towns away (these are special trips my sister and I take, with conversation and catching up in the car on the way down and back, then separating on our own book odysseys in the store, followed by chat over coffee to discuss our findings), my library’s online newsletter (or just browsing the actual library), and a print flyer called Book Page with reviews, interviews and book advertising.
I’ve noticed something over the past few years, and maybe you have, too. I’m probably a little late in the noticing, but the thing is the abundance of book titles with the word “girl(s)” in them. Here’s just a sampling:
- The Girl Who Chased the Moon (Sarah Addison Allen)
- Lilac Girls (Martha Hall Kelly)
- The Good Girl (Mary Kubica)
- The Girl Who Fell From the Sky (Heidi W. Durrow)
- Or simply, The Girls (Emma Cline)
Don’t forget these classics:
- Girl with a Pearl Earring (Tracy Chevalier)
- Girl, Interrupted (Susanna Kaysen)
- The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (Stieg Larson) as well as the sequels The Girl Who Played with Fire and The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest and
I could go on and on. When I googled it, Goodreads had a list of 759 books with the word “girl” in it. 759! Why is this so?
One could point to the mega success of novels like Gone Girl (Gillian Flynn) and The Girl on the Train (Paula Hawkins). Do authors–or publishers–really believe they can replicate that kind of success simply with a certain word in the title? Do they really think readers will flock to a book with said title, in the hopes of finding the same thrilling reading experience? I wouldn’t be surprised. Human beings are like sheep, content to go where they’re led.
Maybe it’s something about the word “girl” itself. It connotes youth, beauty, innocence, a nascent sexuality. It’s what men want, and what women want to be. There’s a yearning associated with it, or a nostalgia. There’s so much that can go wrong–the misconceptions or corruption of youth, poison behind the beauty, the smashing of innocence, inappropriate or destructive sexuality. These stories behind the girl are alluring. We’re drawn to these images like a moth to a flame.
Maybe I should take up this trend and insert the word “girl” into my titles. My wolf novel could be Wolf Girl, instead of Wolf Dream (and believe it or not, it’s an expanded version of a short story I originally called “Lost Girl”–maybe I already intuitively understood the power of that word). My dragon novel could be, of course, Dragon Girl, instead of The Last Dragon, or The Girl with the Ruby Red Scales. I don’t have a title yet for the story I’m planning right now, but maybe it could be Girl, Reincarnated. Or The Poet Girl. I’m kidding, but it just goes to show how important titles are, and the influence they have over readers.
I’ve been seriously slacking in the book review department, so here are some blurbs about the last four books I’ve read:
The Light Between the Oceans, by M.L. Stedman.
In 1920’s Australia, Izzie, a lighthouse keeper’s wife, struggles with miscarriage; one day, she decides to keep a baby that washes ashore in a boat with a dead man. It’s a decision that will haunt her husband Tom for years. As a man who lived through the horrors of World War I, he clings to his integrity as a remedy for what he saw and did in those years. The isolation of the lighthouse allows them to keep their secret for a time; Tom’s love for his wife, and the child they named Lucy, keeps his torment at bay–for a time. Inevitably, the secret comes out, and the pain and grief that follows–for Tom, for Izzie, for the people who lay claim to the child, and mostly for the child herself, is almost unbearable. It was hard to know who to root for in this wrenching novel that explores the devastating consequences of a decision made in grief and longing, hope and love.
Uprooted, by Naomi Novick.
It’s been many years since I’ve read a traditional fantasy–I thought maybe I’d “outgrown” them some time ago; turns out, I’ve just been waiting for one that doesn’t replay the same old tired tropes. Or maybe I’ve been away long enough for it to feel fresh again. At any rate, I immensely enjoyed this tale Novik culled from Polish folklore. Agnieshka, a young woman from the local village, has been chosen by the Dragon Lord to live with him and be his assistant in his tower across the river; he has chosen a young woman from her village every ten years for as long as anyone can remember. The Dragon Lord is a wizard who uses his powers to defend their valley from the evil influence of the Wood: a malevolent forest that corrupts and sickens anyone who strays too close to its borders. Agnieshka bumbles about in her new role with the cantankerous wizard, until they discover that she has her own powers–a Witch whose abilities confound and fascinate the Dragon Lord. Throw in a little politics and court intrigue, a relationship fraught with sexual tension, and a quest to discover the source of the Wood’s malevolence, and I couldn’t put this book down.
My Life with Bob, by Pamela Paul.
I’ve mentioned this book in a previous post, and it was as entertaining as I thought and hoped it would be. Paul is the NY Times Book Review editor; she chronicles her life with BOB (Book of Books)–a notebook wherein she lists every single book she’s read for the past 28 years, since she was a teenager. Because I keep my own list of books (in print for many years, now digitally), I had to see how Paul’s choice of books impacted her life (or vice versa). Of course, her life has been much more interesting and varied than mine–she’s traveled extensively, several times to France during her school years, taking off to live in Thailand by herself after college, as well as many other places. The book progresses gradually from her youth to the present (in her mid-forties, married with three children). A person’s lifetime reading list is like a fingerprint, never the same for any one person. Later in the book, a book group asked the question, why do you read? Paul replied, in part, “To be transported.” I agree. I read to go to all the places I’ll never go, to live all the lives I’ll never live. I can’t get enough.
The Shadow Land, by Elizabeth Kostova.
Years ago, I enjoyed Kostova’s The Historian, a kind of literary take on the Dracula myth. Her books are long and sprawling, with several points of view revealed through various sources: oral histories, letters, flashbacks. Her stories involve a core mystery that is ferreted out over distance and time. The Shadow Land takes place in Bulgaria (Eastern Europe and its history is a common theme in her books–Kostova is married to a Bulgarian). Alexandra is a 26-year-old woman who has traveled to Bulgaria to teach English at the Institute in Sofia, the nation’s capitol. She carries an old grief with her–as teenagers, her brother Jack disappeared on a hiking trip with their family, and was never seen again. This goes far to explain why, when she finds herself with someone else’s bag–containing an urn with someone’s ashes–in a taxi mix up, she stubbornly goes so far and endures so much to return the ashes to its family, instead of simply dumping it at the local police station. Alexandra finds herself enmeshed with the Lazarov family; in particular, Stoyan Lazarov, whose ashes she carries. With the help of Aspurah “Bobby” Iliev, her taxi driver–who turns out to be much more than a taxi driver–they pursue the elusive Lazarovi, discover Stoyan’s history as a violinist, his sufferings in a forced labor camp during the Communist regime, and why the police are pursuing them and the urn. This is a rich, engaging read that led me on a journey through the beautiful landscapes of Bulgaria (a country about which I knew almost nothing), and the sufferings of its people through various wars and political climates. Mostly, it’s about Stoyan, his genius and secrets, his sufferings and the sacrifices he made for the people he loved.
Have you read any of these books? What have you been reading? Comment and we’ll talk about it!
I finally watched Dumb and Dumber Too on cable the other day, and I have to say my disappointment completely matched my low expectations.
You have to understand the iconic position the original Dumb and Dumber holds in my family. Every single line in that movie literally (and I use the word “literally” in its literal sense here) is a cultural and comedic touchstone. More than twenty years after its release, we still quote lines at any moment that seems appropriate.
I could go on and on, but you get the idea.
If we’re flicking through the channels and come across D&D, we’ll watch it, no matter where in the movie it is. We still laugh. A lot. Every single time. It never gets old.
Until the same ideas are rehashed and reheated in an unfunny sequel (okay, I giggled here and there), served up as something new, when it’s really just overcooked leftovers. The writers tried to cash in on repeating a formula, and for me, it didn’t work. You just can’t improve on gold; better just to leave it alone–and I love almost everything Jim Carey touches.
This got me thinking about humor in general, and what makes me laugh, specifically. Jim Carey’s goofball slapstick comedy fits right into my long history of loving and laughing at, well, slapstick goofballs. Maybe it started when I was a kid, with a steady diet of Looney Tunes on Saturday mornings, and Laurel and Hardy and the Three Stooges on Sunday mornings, before the TV38 movie–some horror flick like Hell House or Kingdom of the Spiders. This juxtaposition of the silly and the horrific probably has a lot to do with my weirdness–it might even be the key to my entire personality…anyway, I absorbed that sense of the absurd into my blood early on.
In the eighties, I drank up the Airplane! movies, which spoofed the airline disaster movies of the seventies. There’s a lot of quotes from those movies that fall from my lips now and then (“Don’t call me Shirley,” of course; “She’s starting to shimmy,” and references to Ted’s “drinking” problem). My brother Randy has called me “Scraps” for over 30 years now, based on a bit about a dog named Scraps in one of these films (a kind of sick joke, actually), that we laughed and laughed about together. To this day, he hasn’t called me anything else.
I dutifully followed Leslie Nielson into his Naked Gun movies, where he played the hapless Detective Frank Drebbin.
The eighties and nineties were filled with these stupid-is funny movies, like Top Secret with Val Kilmer, and the Hot Shots movies with Charlie Sheen. I imbibed them all. Even thinking about these movies makes me giggle. At the time, they induced gut-wrenching guffaws and I-can’t-stop-crying-I’m-going-to-pee-my-pants laughter. Lots of other kinds of comedy make me laugh, but this ridiculousness holds a special place in my funny bone.
Some people don’t get it. They wrinkle their nose and look at you as if you’ve lost your mind. “That’s so dumb.” Well, yeah, that’s the point. And I’m sorry, but if you can sit through a performance of Jim Carey’s spastic facial expressions and plasticman gestures without losing it, that’s a little sad. Lighten up, because life is absurd. Let’s laugh at it.
What makes you laugh? Do these movies crack you up, or leave you groaning? Leave a comment and we’ll laugh about it!
I’ve got a birthday coming up this month, and let’s just say I’ll be on the other side of forty-five. This has led to all sorts of interesting reactions in me, the usual, predictable ones, but the one I want to talk about here is my altered sense of time and how it has affected my writing.
In my twenties, and even throughout most of my thirties, my life seemed like a long road stretching out before me, with the destination nowhere in sight. I felt like I didn’t have my shit together, but that was okay, because there was plenty of time (and road) to figure it all out. If I wrote, it was whenever I felt like it, and it was mostly complaining in my journal about not writing and not having enough time to write (??!!–this was before I had my daughter, mind you. I had no idea what “no time” meant).
Then suddenly (yes, it seemed quite suddenly) I was forty, and the road became decidedly shorter–terminal, in fact. The destination came into sight; it was still a long way ahead, but the fact that I could see it disturbed me. Okay, I thought. If I want to write, I better get the hell going, because sooner or later this road is going to stop.
Slightly panicked, I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. Short stories, long stories, even a couple of novels. Blog posts. Time was running out. Hurry, hurry, my mind kept badgering me. You’re going to die someday, idiot, get it all out! So I did. Piles of writing accumulated around me. I sent some pieces out on submission. A couple of small successes followed. Not much else since then.
That’s okay, but I do know what the ultimate problem is: I’m going too fast. I’m dashing down these stories (in the small pockets of time allowed me–I think ruefully back on the oceans of time I had before motherhood, and how I squandered that time), and making cursory revision attempts, but I’m not slowing down and really taking the time to make these stories the best they can be. I was so hell-bent on getting a finished product out, they turned out a little shoddy. Decent, but not good enough to be published.
It’s been a big learning curve, and it still is (that’s why I call this blog My Writing Journey-there will always be something to learn along this writing road). And the lesson that’s become clear to me is to slow down, be patient. Slow and steady. Quality over quantity. I don’t have to prove that I’m a writer by pumping out a slew of stories that aren’t quite ready.
I’ve mentioned that I’m working on a story based on a poet that lived in my area in the mid-nineteenth century. I’ve also mentioned that I don’t really know much about poetry, or how people lived in the mid-nineteenth century in New England. So I’m going to have to do a lot of research. That’s going to slow me down. Not a bad thing. I’ve spent quite a bit of time on character sketches for the four main characters, really digging into their personalities, their history, their passions and baggage. This is all after getting down a first draft of the main events in the story, a draft that will be expanded on and reworked. This summer when Lilly is on vacation, I’ll plod away on a workable outline. Maybe NaNoWriMo this November will be spent fleshing out this outline into a novel. And then the real work will begin.
I love these characters, and I must tell their story. But I want to do it right. So I’m not rushing. Slow and steady. I’m not planning on dying in the interim. (I still want to work toward my Fifty by Fifty plan, so I’ve got a lot of work to do!)
As I’ve been pondering these things, I came across this article, about a Japanese painter who felt he didn’t paint anything of worth until he was 70 years old, that the older he got, the better he got. There’s hope for me yet!
One of the books on my TBR list is My Life with Bob: Flawed Heroine Keeps Book of Books, Plot Ensues, by Pamela Paul. Paul is the editor of the New York Times Book Review, and she’s kept a list of all the books she’s ever read for the past 28 years. She calls this running list Bob (Book of Books).
This is a book I must absolutely read, because I, too, have kept a list of books that I’ve read, for a period of at least 15 years. In 2000, I bought a beautiful hardcover notebook with the tiny handwriting of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre on the cover. For each entry, I wrote the title and author, the copyright year, the number of pages, the dates I read the book, whether or not I owned it or if it was a library book, whether it was a new read or a re-read, paperback or hardcover. And then I’d write a few pages summing up the plot, what I thought of the book, anything and everything about how it made me feel. Sometimes I’d start a book and never finish, and I’d explain why I didn’t, or what I didn’t like about it. I wasn’t writing formal book reviews; it was purely subjective, a stream of reactions and thoughts at gut level.
The first book I recorded in that journal was The Innkeeper’s Song, by Peter S. Beagle, in 2000. The last book was Across the Nightingale Floor, by Lian Hearn, in 2004. On the last page I listed the total number of books read (64) and a list of the authors. On the inside covers, I recorded quotes about books and reading by various luminaries. If I saw a picture of the cover of the book, I’d cut it out and tape it into the entry. It truly is a detailed picture of my reading life, a scrapbook of literary experiences.
I have four of these beautiful hardcover notebooks, and they cover my reading from 2000 until 2011. The last one is a larger purple hardcover that covers 2011 to 2015; it’s only one third filled in, and I was getting lazier with my entries–I had begun to photcopy the cover of the book and tape it in, and jot down a few words about it. It was about this time I began the blog, and all the books I’ve read since then have been informally reviewed here. For a list of them, go here. To read the reviews, go to “Books” under Categories on my Home page.
With the inevitable transition from handwritten entries to digital posts, I’ve traded in a personal and private relationship to books for a slightly more formal, public one. I can share my love of books with others here and talk about my reading habit with other book lovers, which is wonderful; but I’m also sad that the hardcover book journals have come to an end.
I’d love to take the time to read through them all and perhaps match book choices to life events. I have personal journals stowed away somewhere from this time; it might be interesting to match the dates between the book journals and the personal journals, and maybe see what might have influenced my reading choices. In 2000 I was 29 and two years married; my daughter was nine years away. I worked at the accounting office for most of that time, and I scribbled away privately on various stories. Nothing too exciting outwardly; but my inner life was always working away, churning, evolving, planning, dreaming.
Could I write a book about my reading habits, as Pamela Paul has? Maybe with some thought, but I doubt it would be very interesting to other readers. It’s more of a personal thing, this choosing of stories, of deciding who I’m going to spend the next 15 hours of my reading life with.
I never named my book journals, but if I did, I suppose I would name them, collectively, Paige (get it?).
I really miss Paige. She was an old friend that was always there for me, during the good times and the bad, but I can always revisit her and reminisce. In the meantime, I’ll read My Life with Bob and add it to my list of books read, a continual, never-ending thread sewn into the fabric of my life.