I Know a Published Author!

I have met a couple of published authors in my life. However, recently a friend I hadn't seen or heard from in years showed up in a Tweet from Book People, a fabulous local independent bookstore. They were going to be hosting a book signing for him and his debut novel, The Mirror Thief. Martin Seay, friend of mine, had become a published author. That was new. And... WOW.

From The Elliot Bay Book Company

Of course, I went. I was there early. I brought friends. I listened to the question/answer session shared with Kirk Lynn, another author. Martin looked tired, but what do you expect from somebody in the middle of a fabulous national book signing tour?! There were other people there that I knew, from the same time that I knew Martin. It was like a mini-reunion of people who used to work together. (We worked together in a bookstore, no less.) Afterward, I wanted to hang around and chat with him, but he looked so busy and so tired that I really just wanted to give him a hug. He even had a handler, if I'm not mistaken. (A guide would be a better word, perhaps? An agent? An escort? Somebody from the bookstore or the publishing house to make sure he was where he needed to be when he needed to be there?) (I want a handler.)

Now, I am reading the book. It took a while to get around to it, mostly because it's not small and it's not particularly light reading from the looks of it and I wanted to be sure that I was in the right mindset. Plus, I discovered that it's on Audible, recorded by the wonderful Edoardo Ballerini . Since I have a 30-mile commute to and from work five days a week, I enjoy listening to audiobooks. (This narrator is truly gifted. And the accents he can do! He has an Italian/American inflection when he's not in character, but he IS the character when they are speaking.) Now, I wonder why exactly I waited. I take that back; it's got a lot going on and the prose is incredible. I do have to be able to pay attention. But, I LOVE it. I mean, first it was awesome when a friend of mine had a book published. I had read some of his writing before and I knew he had talent. But, when I know somebody who actually produced THIS?! Incredible.

He described it as literary fiction, with mystery added to give it more popular appeal. I'm still in the beginning, but I know from the blurbs and discussion that there are three distinct parts: 16th century Venice, 1958 California and a close-to-modern-day Las Vegas. It involves a mirror (duh) and a book. I LOVE books that have an obsession with a specific book (as in that particular physical object, not just any version or publication) as part of the story. I love it. Have I ever read another story with that aspect? I have no idea! But, I love it!

The most truly amazing thing, though, was to read the first pages – and then hear them when I restarted the book as an audiobook – and hear Martin. I think that's why it's so amazing for me to know somebody first and then for them to be published. It would seem on the surface that if I recognize the author in the prose then it means I'm not able to suspend disbelief properly, which could almost seem like a criticism of the writing. But, it's not that. It's intriguing. From page one, the story hits the ground running, even if the only character in the scene is unable to convince himself to get off the bed. It moves. It pulled me in. But, at the same time I just kept thinking, "That's so Martin!" This is what it's like to have friends who become fiction writers. I had no idea.

The Book Riot 2015 Read Harder Challenge

So, to get me back into reading and writing I looked online for a challenge. I came across an oh-so-popular challenge by The Book Riot. She has some interesting categories, the challenge being to read one from each category in 2015. The link is here, if you're interested: http://bookriot.com/2014/12/15/book-riot-2015-read-harder-challenge/

As I was reading through the categories it struck me that I've already read books from so many of them. Out of 24 I could name books from 17 of them, without repeating authors. I mean, Agatha Christie alone could be several of them, so I made it a point to not use the same author twice. Sometimes the same book fit more than one category, sometimes the nature of the categories lend themselves to this. (LGBT and Indie Presses, for instance.) I think it's a very well-rounded list that took some thought and I appreciate the time and effort that she put into it.

For the challenge I'll start with the ones I haven't already read from and go from there. If it's a category I haven't read by now, then it's probably one that I'm not interested in. But then I suppose that's the point – to reach outside of our interests and try new things.

These are the categories, and the books that I've already read in them.

Category	Title	Author
A book written by someone when they were under the age of 25	The Mysterious Affair at Styles	Agatha Christie
A book written by someone when they were over the age of 65	News of a Kidnapping	Gabriel Garcia Marquez
A collection of short stories (either by one person or an anthology by many people)	For the Relief of Unbearable Urges	Nathan Englander
A book published by an indie press	Rolling the R's	R. Zamora Linmark
A book by or about someone that identifies as LGBTQ	Becoming a Man	Paul Monette
A book by a person whose gender is different from your own	The Face of a Stranger	Anne Perry
A book that takes place in Asia	Red Azalea	Anchee Min
A book by an author from Africa	The Power of One	Bryce Courtenay
A book that is by or about someone from an indigenous culture (Native Americans,Aboriginals, etc.)	The Bean Trees	Barbara Kingsolver
A microhistory
A YA novel	The Prince of Mist	Carlos Ruiz Zafón
A sci-fi novel	Fahrenheit 451	Ray Bradbury
A romance novel
A National Book Award, Man Booker Prize or Pulitzer Prize winner from the last decade	How Late It Was, How Late	James Kelman
A book that is a retelling of a classic story (fairytale, Shakespearian play, classic novel, etc.)	Wicked	Gregory Maguire
An audiobook	Death of an Expert Witness	P.D. James
A collection of poetry
A book that someone else has recommended to you	Patron Saint of Liars	Ann Patchett
A book that was originally published in another language	The History of the Siege of Lisbon	José Saramago
A graphic novel, a graphic memoir or a collection of comics of any kind (Hi, have you metPanels?)
A book that you would consider a guilty pleasure (Read, and then realize that good entertainment is nothing to feel guilty over)	Any of the 413,417,491,274 mysteries I've read
A book published before 1850
A book published this year
A self-improvement book (can be traditionally or non-traditionally considered “self-improvement”)

Give Me Back my Mind!

I sit here in Corporate Coffee Shop with a friend. My friend and I aren't seeing eye to eye at the moment. We look at each other across the table warily. I don't trust her, and I can't figure out exactly what she's feeling. There is still a mutual need between us that keeps us tied to each other, but our relationship has been a little rocky lately. Nameless tells me that she is trying to come between us. He might be right. (Though I could and have said the same for some of Nameless' friends as well.)

I've named my friend Miss Marple. Literally. I went in and programmed the name. My friend is my Samsung Galaxy III smartphone. I just now picked it up and checked a website. In my car outside of the coffee shop I checked all of my notifications for Facebook before I turned the engine off. Is this healthy? Nameless accuses me of being addicted to it. Is he right?

When I first got the new phone my neck started aching from looking down at it. It was a new toy and I was looking at it constantly. I played the games and got bored with them. I downloaded the Nook app for it, so that I could read anytime, anywhere. I love having a camera and phone in one device. (These cameras are incredible.) It has my calendar; it has my address book, the internet, maps. It is superbly useful.


One of Nameless' friends – the one I took issue with earlier – is the TV. He has it on at all times. It's background noise for him, which I can understand. I generally keep music going for the same reason. However, I find it difficult to be in the presence of a television (one that's turned on) and not stare at it. It sucks my brain out. Even commercials. Especially commercials, I'd say. Those people know what they're doing when they make them. Somebody can be talking to me and I hear nothing of what they're saying because I'm looking at the TV and my mind his held hostage. I don't turn my TV on at home; I don't like the way it makes me feel. It's too much background noise; too much going on. It raises the anxiety level and I can't pay attention, even if it's in the other room. Nameless will have a dinner party and if the TV is on in the next room I find it difficult to pay attention to what people are saying.

I've noticed something about me and my phone. It involves the coffee shop, which is why I came here to write this. I used to sit here and read. I'd get to know some of the people who come in regularly and chat a little. I eventually bought a Nook eReader. That was a step up technologically. (There's not much more room in my apartment for books.) Lately, however, I've noticed that I don't read as much as I used to. Not just in the coffee shop; I just don't read as much. It started when I got my smartphone. The other day I left my phone at home when I went to work. On my way home I stopped at Corporate Coffee Shop because I had my Nook with me. I didn't read, though. I stared at people and not in an interesting way. My hands felt like they wanted to reach for something. I'd read half a page and I'd look up. I couldn't get lost in my book like I used to. What has happened to me? Is my smartphone as big a brain-sucker as the television? Or bigger, even? I mean, it doesn't even have to be making a noise or showing anything and it has half of my attention. The smartphone doesn't have the moving images of the TV shows or the conversations and sound effects of commercials. (It would if I'd let it, but I never do.) But still, it sucks me in. I might go to it to look up a word, and I notice that I have an email and facebook notifications. Before I know it, I've put the phone back down 10 minutes later and I never looked up the word I like I started to. If I pick up the phone again, it will all start all over again. I might never learn what that word means.

There is a difference between my smartphone and a TV, though. The smartphone is useful.  I need a phone. I like having the calendar and camera on my phone. I could downgrade, but the calendar wouldn't sync with my Google calendar; the camera wouldn't be as good. I wouldn't be able to use it as well to listen to music, which I'm doing right now because the noise here is getting a little out of hand.

Maybe I can retrain myself. Maybe with effort I can learn to not look at Facebook so frequently, and other social media outlets. It would take more than that. I would have to learn to not WANT to look at those things. I would have to learn how to HAVE a smartphone and not feel the NEED to LOOK at it. This runs counter to everything that smartphone programmers are working toward. Of course they want us addicted to our devices. of course they want us to always be looking at it. I would have to be fighting against what Very Intelligent People are doing to get my attention. I would do this because it is a very useful divice to have. It is phone, calendar, texting, camera, internet, social media. All of those things are good. All of those things are healthy. They are fine, taken in moderation. But, can I do it? I have counted 6 times that I've picked up the phone since I started writing this. And writing it has been agony. Words are not flowing; Ideas are not taking shape as easily. The smartphone knows what I'm doing and it's fighting me.

I think I can do it, though. I miss the eArnie that read on rainy days. I miss the me that had a book and read it in the coffee shop without half of my brain wondering what other people were doing in Facebook, etc. Rather than give up the things that are good about it; I will try to take back control of my device. I will keep it in the pocket of my messenger bag. It will take a while. In less than a year my brain is acutely atuned to seeing tiny cues as notifications from Facebook, email and other social things. But, there is too much good to be had with this device to give it up for the sake of some of the vendors that I've invited into it. Dark Side vs. Light Side.

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. Written in 1953. How accurate it was.

Books I've Read

February 23, 2014

I love finding a good book. Not just any old read, but a book that I can spend time with, get to know, take to coffee, snuggle up with on the sofa. A book that captures my mind and leaves me feeling its lack while I'm at work, that distracts me when I'm hanging out with friends. A book for which I will steal away during a dinner party for a few covert pages.

Sometimes I find myself looking at used books. It might be at a used bookstore, or a thrift store that sells books. I might be glancing at titles in a garage sale or coveting novels on somebody's bookshelf. I'm glancing through the shiny dust covers and something catches my eye – something different, something interesting. Something promising. Like the furtive eye contact made from across the room with a stranger. Something in their eyes says that they, too, are looking for something. Maybe you're looking for the same thing - be it romance, lust or just to get the hell out of there with somebody and have an intelligent conversation. Maybe what you're longing for doesn't correspond with their needs; maybe you'll never even know. But the spark happened and it will not be ignored. This first contact stirs something in the belly, and I felt this the other day as I was looking at the hardcovers on top of the bookcase in the mass market paperback mystery section of a used bookstore. Between the garish and tawdry dustcovers a trade paperback in a matt, darker-color was tucked in, with typeface that called attention to itself by being subtle – a lighter color on the darker background – along with filligree in just slightly darker shade than the type. This could be my next romance. Something just felt right in the second that my eye passed over the spine. A couple of seconds later, though, I realized that I already knew this work. We had already spent our time together on the sofa, in the coffee shop and even – dare I write it here – in my bed. I had held it in my hand as I talked with friends, so that I could feel its presence even when I wasn't able to read its pages. Indeed this one was special; the design on the cover did not lie. Our affair was intense and lasted longer than most of my other affairs. But, it had already come to its inevitable end, and oh, but it's sad when a love affair dies – as the song says.

It's too soon yet, Meaning of Night. Maybe someday we will revisit our romance, but for now, love, let us keep fond the memories we have of each other.

The Meaning of Night: A Confession

e A r n i e

A Christmas Cat Memory

If I wasn't a crazy cat lady before, I think that I must have just crossed over that threshold. Yesterday I was reading to my cats. They were sitting around me, I was reading them a Christmas story and they were purring. Some of them were.

This was not the original intent. I went to a used book store the other day and found a nice copy of a book that contains A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote. On Sunday, as the Thanksgiving holiday came to a close, I was in my apartment alone with my cats. One thing about cats is they are generally in the same room as you are. My cats behave this way, anyway. I don't call them, they just end up in the same room. So, I'm sitting on the sofa and see the book on the coffee table and decide to read it. But, my only experience with this story is oral. My sister Lottie (such a lovely name: Lottie) had a school assignment when we were children to memorize this story, pare it down to 5 minutes – or some other pre-designated amount of time – and recite it. Needless to say, we heard a lot of "Oh my! It's Fruitcake weather!"

I couldn't just read the story; I had to read it aloud. It wouldn't be the same otherwise. I put on my actor voice and began reading. The cats, as if summoned by the sound of my voice, came closer. One in particular lay down in a cat bed near the sofa and began to purr. When reading the parts in which the woman spoke I read in a light, wispy voice; the boy's parts I did with a less wispy, but still high voice.

It has been a while since I've heard it and being that it had been shortened to meet the time requirement, there were parts I hadn't heard at all. So, to a great extent it was like listening to the story for the first time. For instance, I remembered their buying whiskey (in my memory it was brandy), but I didn't remember that it was from a bar, or that the man they bought it from was an Indian, or that it was the first time they actually saw him because they had always dealt with his wife in the past. I don't remember it being that comical. Of course, my sense of humor hadn't been that developed when I heard it before.

I do remember the ending being rather sad because the boy had been shipped off to a military school. I was not surprised at the actual ending; I saw it coming in the final paragraphs. But, I am I and lately I'm never more than a blink away from tears, so the last paragraph I read with a cracking voice and with actual tears in my eyes. The cats were unfazed. 

This Christmas memory is a nice tradition. It is a classic that has been “broadcast, recorded, filmed, and staged multiple times, in award-winning productions.”1 But, it’s kind of sad. Why would something sad be popular at Christmas? It’s charming and easy to read, but even before the end there’s an air of melancholy mixed with the comic. Do all of us have sad memories mixed with happy that work together to create the atmosphere of the season? Perhaps people who don’t have these sad memories can be detached enough to appreciate the story for what it is, while the rest of us relate on a different level. 

All in all I think that I’ll read it again next year. I may even pick up other stories to read to my cats. I could take this whole cat lady thing to a new level.

The End of an Era

March 11, 2013

Page 131. The end is approaching and I'm not emotionally prepared for this. Out of 166 pages, 9 of them are about the author, related products, etc. So, there are a total of 157 pages of novel. And I'm on page 131. I've gone from the early interbella period through the 70's and now I'm approaching the end. In 1920 Agatha Christie published The Mysterious Affair at Styles, her first novel and the first Hercule Poirot mystery. Admittedly, I'm less fond of Poirot as I am of Miss Marple, but even she was born of a side character (not of the same name) in an early Poirot novel.

Thirty-three novels spanning from 1920 to 1972. And, I'm at the penultimate, which is probably the last of the Poirot novels I care to read. I read all of the Miss Marple novels first, but there are only 12 of those. I wrote about them here. I began to read the Poirot mysteries almost begrudgingly. "If I can't have the character I want I'll go ahead and read these." That was more or less my mindset. I've taken issue with him on occasion, but good lord, with that many novels not every one of them can please everybody. But, I've grown accustomed to him. I look forward to weekends with a light novel and a nap on the sofa. The Miss Marple novels helped me keep my sanity when I lived in a small town 20 miles from Austin (I ramble about that here) and Poirot has become a part of what I enjoy about my apartment; part of what makes this little place feel like home.

And now I'm on page 131.

The last novel is called Curtain and I'm almost certain that Poirot dies in it. It was written during WWII and set to be published postmortem. Actually, it was published just before she passed away, but after she had realized that she would not be able to write another novel. I'm not certain I want to read about him dying. It would be like watching the Last M∙A∙S∙H, knowing that Hawkeye was going to die. (He doesn't.) Miss Marple also had a final novel written at the same time and it was published after Christie passed away. I read it in the order it was written in, not published, so it fit in. (I think that Christie adjusted Curtain to fit in at the end of the series, but didn't get a chance to do so with Sleeping Murder.)

There's always Tommy and Tuppence, but, I'm not excited about them. Maybe I'll give them a whirl. There aren't that many of their novels. They could at least tide me over until I find the next thing that I want to read.

And, this is a remarkably long series. I really have nothing to complain about. When I started it, and I found an official reading order, I felt comfortable that I'd be set for a while. I guess I was. But, now it's coming to an end. I'm on page 131 and this is likely the last one I'll read and I'm sad, and not just a little anxious. How will I fill my Saturday afternoons? Cleaning? Pffft! I'm going to go to bed now and read. It's likely that I will be finished with the book before I fall asleep. And then tomorrow will come along and somehow I'll go on. Maybe I'll cry.

Until later,

eArnie

In the beginning...

March 7, 2013

I've been reading the Bible lately. This is less an act of faith as it is simple interest. I can't even remember what the reference was that started the whole thing. But, I read something that was a reference to something in the Bible and I began to get curious about the things that I didn't know. I've read Genesis, Exodus and Leviticus before. I petered out in Numbers – it's rather tedious. So, when whatever it was piqued my curiosity, I began with a perusal of Deuteronomy, which is more or less a summary of the first 4 books from what I've read. But, I wanted to know about the things that people talk about. I wanted to read the books of Kings and read about David and about Daniel and understand the context. But, I didn't want to miss anything so I kept going further and further back. Finally, I settled at the end of the Pentateuch.

I wanted to begin with the story part, and not so much with the laws. The laws are tedious and make me think that it was the world's first attempt at socialism. I mean, settle accounts every 7 years and every 7th 7-year span all property reverts back to its original owner. So, I sell you some land; in 49 years it comes back to me or my family. What I get from that is that this would prevent a situation in which most of the property/money rested in the hands of a few powerful families. And the size and shape and decorations of the Arc of the Covenant are only interesting for the first five times you read them. After that they lose some of their flair.

So, I read the end of Deuteronomy and made my way through Joshua. It was interesting – from a historic perspective if nothing else. The Israelites never got along; they were bickering from the get-go. "Why do I have to be on this side of the Jordan? Why does he get to be on that side? Why can't I have my own altar? Why do I have to go use HIS?" Also, the seemingly arbitrary commands that were given. March seven times around the city; don't attack or shout. It recalls their days in the desert. Gather only enough manna for one day; don't try to save for future days. It all seems like God is trying to teach them to be 100% dependent on him. When I feed my dog I make him sit and stay while I put the food down. Then I say, "Release" and he can eat. He has to learn that he's completely dependent on me for food, so that he learns that I am dominant; I am the alpha. Is this what God was doing in the desert? (Is this question sacrilege?)

This is not to say that it isn't interesting. At least I have a better understanding what people are talking about and referring to. And, the bible that I have has notes; it explains the different sources, from the North, from the South and their different perspectives and how those perspectives come into play when putting the stories down on papyrus. (Actually, having read First and Second Kings gives me more insight into that background information as well. But, more on that later.)

I'll close for the moment. I've risked a bolt of lightening enough for one day. I'll write more questions and observations later.

eArnie

American Gods

September 2, 2012

American Gods

When I first picked this book up I noticed that I was reading a different kind of novel. I noticed the male hormones dripping out of it when I read. I noticed that it was 'interesting' and other patronizing adjectives and descriptive phrases that I might have used.

About halfway through the book something inside of the pages reached out of the book, grabbed me by the neck and refused to let go. I couldn't sleep; I just wanted to read. I didn't want to cook or eat or anything. It was difficult week at work. (I think I mentioned that I read slow.)

The book is magic. I would be 50 pages from the end. Then the next time I picked it up I would be 100 pages from the end. Then I'd read and read and read and I'd be 90 pages from the end. It's like I was reading in place. It's a long book!

But, I kept having to go back and reread things that I had read because they come up again. There are so many sublime phrases in there, so many things said. Then, one of them will come back to the protagonist and I'd have to go back and reread. This is when a Nook – and its search feature – come in handy. Don't get me wrong, I love books on display in my home and I love to feel the paper in my fingers, but I also love to click on a word and look it up in the dictionary (though sometimes Nook's dictionary uses the same root word in its definition, which we were taught in school never to do) and I like to be able to search a word and easily go to where it is printed in the book.

But, about the book. It was captivating. I was forced to learn some mythology and vocabulary. Gaiman is inordinately fond of the word 'diorama', which might be one of those things that mean something that I didn't catch. The book is full of things that mean something, but that I didn't catch until later when it was pointed out. Maybe the excessive dioramas are – collectively – something that he left unexplained, something to be appreciated by those who are bright enough to understand.

I mentioned before that it was Gaiman's introduction that actually brought me in. He writes about having written the book, having it go through the editors and as a 10th anniversary thing he was allowed to put back in what seems to be about 12,000 words. He didn't say that the book reverted back to its original form; he seems to have agreed with a lot of the edits. He just feels that the book is better this way than without those particular parts. It is long this way. It has 560 pages. That's a lot of pages for a slow reader. The average Agatha Christie has around 200 or less.

And, much like the movie Memento I feel the need to go back and read it again now.

I very much recommend this book.

eArnie

That's the kind of crazy I am this year

August 27, 2012

Here I am sitting on my patio, drinking coffee and reading. My cats hung around, ate grass, now they're lounging on the concrete under the stairs. It's really nice. I like that I decided to stop spending so much time and money in the corporate coffee shop. I like being home.

Or, do I? I'm sitting on the patio. It's 90º. I'm drinking hot coffee. Yet, I'm outside because that's just the kind of crazy I am this year.

I've always kind of unconsciously avoided being at home. I mean, this dates back to the first time I had an apartment. Odd that I'd pay money every month for a place I didn't want to be. For a while I couldn't sleep on my bed; I could only sleep on my sofa. I don't know. Perhaps I'm claustrophobic. I don't entirely understand it, but it seems to be going away slowly, on its own.

Slowly.

But, here are a couple of pictures of my patio/porch.

Anastasia keeping an eye on things

BYRC – Appointment with Death

August 26, 2012

I have read all of the Miss Marple books I could find and now I'm working my way through the Hercule Poirot series. It just so happened that the next book on my list was Appointment with Death, which was published in 1938, so it qualified for the Birth Year Reading Challenge. It's kind of cheating because the challenge is supposed to introduce us to books we wouldn't have otherwise read, and clearly I was about to read this one anyway. But, oh well.

The story itself is 178 pages on my Nook, and the Nook is generally comparable to actual books w/r/t the number of pages. The publisher fills up the rest of the 209 pages with a list of Poirot books, snippets about the books and an "essay" by Charles Osborne, which was actually a list of facts about the book and its subsequent appearances on stage and screen. It was taken from a biographical companion to the works of Agatha Christie. I realize that I put far too much of my personal reactions in book reviews that I write, but that was just entirely too dry. (It was a little informative, though.)

In this novel Christie incorporates a dominant matriarch who is actually a "mental sadist". This sort of character is commonplace now, especially in TV, but I don't know how common it was in 1938. I did deep, in-depth research on the subject (I read the Wikipedia article on the book) and I did not find any reference to this aspect one way or another, so I can't report how edgy Christie was in writing about dangerously deranged people. (I'm trying not to be offended that the sadist is American.)

As usual Poirot interviews the suspects, but this time I couldn't help wondering why they agreed to be interviewed. I mean, I wouldn't have answered his questions; I wouldn't even have answered his summons to the interview. He didn't have any authority. A couple of the girls looked at him with pleading eyes, but why would they plead with this person who was not an official detective, when the real detective wasn't even present? Why would they collectively agree to gather together in the end with him so that he could reveal who did it? I don't remember ever feeling this way with the other Poirot novels, so I suspect that Christie didn't do as good a job this time of justifying it.

Not only that, I didn't want him to find the answer. She did a good enough job of creating the dominant, sadistic mother/bitch that I wanted him to keep his Belgian nose and his luxurious moustaches out of the family's business. Even the ending didn't satisfy me in this respect; it did not justify – in my eyes – his interference.

Christie married an archæologist in 1930 and from what I understand her experiences with him led to this novel – its location, anyway. I enjoyed her description of Petra and it seems accepted that it is accurate. In the snippets of her Autobiography that I read she shows acute interest in archeology and a longing for the Middle East whenever she left it.

I also read that she learned to hate Poirot, but was faithful to her readers and kept writing about him as long as they kept enjoying him, which was all of her life. I much prefer Miss Marple, though there are far fewer of her novels than of M. Poirot. I think I'm okay with that. Her Marple novels seem much more involved, especially with regard to character development. Christie wrote her first Poirot novel (indeed her first novel) in 1916. (It was published in 1920.) Published in 1938, Appointment with Death is her 16th Poirot novel, which doesn't even count the 4 novellas and many short stories. I can't help feeling that she's tired of him by now.

I read this Novel basically in one day. I enjoyed it, partly because it was not too taxing while I lay on the sofa drinking coffee. I have no real love for Poirot, but I do have a love for Christie's writing style and the whodunit nature of her books. I enjoyed the scenery she paints, even if I wasn't as fond of these characters that she used to paint it.

Thus concludes my review of the first book I read on my Birth Year Reading Challenge. Next up, I believe, is Are You There, God? It's me, Margaret.

More later,

eArnie

Birth Year Reading Challenge

August 20, 2012

http://hotchpotcafe.blogspot.com/2012/01/birth-year-reading-challenge-2012.html

I stumbled across this (I didn't StumbleUpon™ it, I just stumbled across it in the old fashioned way) on a blog called 'Wednesday Book Club'. It sounds like a good challenge, plus it will point me in a new direction as far as reading goes  – one that I probably would not have gone on my own. You can read the ins and outs about it on the link above.

Birth Year: 1970

There are some wonderful books from this year. I had no idea that some of them were as old as I. The Judy Blume, for instance. Who would have thought that that young adult book was 42 years old? I know I like Ruth Rendell. (I already read Agatha Christie, which applies to the next section as well.) Oliver Sacks is fun anyway. Toni Morrison – I've read Beloved so I think this would be a good book to follow up with. We are allowed to alter the list, so I might do that, especially depending on the availability of some of the titles. For the moment, though, here's my plan:

Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret – Judy Blume
Passenger to Frankfurt – Agatha Christie
A Guilty Thing Surprised – Ruth Rendell
The Bluest Eye – Toni Morrison
The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat – Oliver Sacks
If Only They Could Talk – James Herriot

1938

My mother's birth year. (Forgive me for spilling the beans, Mom.) Like I said earlier, I'm already working my way through the Agatha Christies. I haven't read P.G. Wodehouse and this is as good a reason as any.

Mr. Popper's Penguins – Richard Atwater
Appointment with Death – Agatha Christie
The Code of the Woosters – P.G. Wodehouse

This is 9 books. I believe I can do this in 5 months. As I said I might have to adjust depending on availability, and the actual substance of the books. I'm not in the market right now for a 700 page novel.

But, I'm excited about this game and I look forward to completing my list, even if that means taking days off from work to finish. :-D

I'll keep you posted.

eArnie

American Gods

August 14, 2012

A new kind of book. My Nook recommended a book to me a long time ago and I'm just getting around to reading it. It seemed good, and it still seems like a good book. It's intriguing. However, after I've read for a while I have to get up and wash the testosterone off my hands. The other day at the corporate coffee shop I had to wring it out of my shirt; the book was dripping virile hormone while I read. I guess I've been reading Agatha Christie and chick flick books too long. I'm not used to this. The main character's name is Shadow and the book opens with him getting out of jail. That should give you a good idea.

But, the title of the book indicates something, and the blurbs hint at a supernatural quality. It's interesting in its own way. The version I'm reading is the 10th anniversary edition. Apparently, the author was allowed to put back in some text that had been edited previously. He – Neil Gaiman – wrote an introduction describing the writing of it, and the opportunity to revisit it. That's what caught my attention more than anything.

It's dark; it's brooding. It's humorous in a disturbing and sinister sort of way. So far, it's not an action-packed thriller. That's not what I meant by testosterone. Relevant and prescient, American Gods has been lauded for its brilliant synthesis of “mystery, satire, sex, horror, and poetic prose” (Michael Dirda, Washington Post Book World). It's not a light book that I can read on a Saturday afternoon while I neglect laundry. This one engages the mind quite a bit more and holds my attention.

I had to be in the right mood for something like this, but I'm enjoying it. I needed to get away from my rut and experience new literature.

More later,

eArnie

Beginning a Fun New Book

July 21, 2012

Currently reading: In a Sunburned Country, by Bill Bryson.

I just started and have been (literally) laughing out loud the whole time. It's disturbing my cats. On page 26 I laughed so hard I almost passed out. Ask my sister, Lottie; this is not an exaggeration. (Something about dice in a cup of coffee... my memory is vague.)

More soon,

eArnie

Finishing with a Kick in the Pants

July 19, 2012

I have finished Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe. I very much enjoyed the book, but I have mixed emotions about it.

Most of all, I thoroughly enjoyed reading it. I looked forward to getting off work to read it, the way I hear people at work getting excited about watching the TV show they're currently keeping up with. Contrast that with the book I'm reading now, which I put down regularly and wonder if there's something else I could be reading, Fried Green Tomatoes is definitely a keeper. I spent many hours sitting on the patio reading while my cats nibbled on grass, and in the recliner, which one cat has pretty much claimed as her own and I have to ask special permission to use. I went a long time without using it and they've gotten out of the habit of sitting on my lap. I need to get back to that. I need more books like this one.

A buddy of mine who is a teacher once gave a few of us a minor lecture about the difficulty of writing a narrative by jumping back and forth in time. It was a warning and a suggestion that we not try it unless we were seasoned writers. In a side-by-side with the movie, I can say that the movie went back and forth from present to past (depression era). The book – much more so than the movie – jumps around in time. It doesn't just go from present day to the past; it jumps from present day to two main points in the past and a sprinkling of other temporal locations. Each chapter begins with the date and place, but it was fairly easy from context to figure out where in the century I was, but that might be because I saw the movie first and I knew what was going to happen in one timeline, so I could tell when I was reading in the other.

I thought that she handled it very well, but I felt that there was perhaps a bit too much of it; too many different times. Not that I lost track (I didn't) but it just seemed a little too much. Along the same lines, there seemed to be more characters than one is used to reading about. I didn't feel, necessarily, that there were simply too many characters, but that possibly too much time was taken in following up on so many of them. Taking time to digress and give history about a couple of key minor players is good, but we seemed to be all over the place at times. And while she tied most of it together in the end, I'm not sure that it all added to the story, enough to justify the erratic flow.

As I said before, a lot of it is about a woman in the 80's waking up and discovering that she's no longer a young woman and that perhaps all of the rules she's been following so closely weren't as important as she had thought. Similar to Miss Julia Speaks Her Mind in that respect.

The other part, now that's a real kick in the pants. What's hinted at in the movie is just stated flat out in the book. I don't like to write spoilers, so I'll be vague. But, there were a couple of fabulously unexpected things toward the end of the book/movie. I loved reading about the love and loyalty that Flagg expresses, even though I could feel my more orthodox Catholic friends squirm a little in my mind while I read those parts. Clearly, I'm not one to judge anybody, much less fictional characters or the author who writes them. And the disapproval that my mind projects onto my unsuspecting friends only makes it more delicious.

This was a book well worth reading. I purchased it on my Nook, but I would actually like to have it on my bookshelf. Thank you for reading this review. I look forward to writing more soon.

Until then I remain

Your friend in books,

eArnie

A Chick Flick with a Kick

6/30/2012


A few months ago I watched a movie that a friend leant me called Fried Green Tomatoes. I had never seen it, nor have I read the book, which is a little embarrassing because my mother is a retired librarian and I worked at a bookstore for six years. But, oh well. I watched the movie and was stunned. I was expecting a chick flick, which it is, but with an extra kick. A chick flick with a kick.

So, tossing around for a good book to read to follow up The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society with, I started Ulysses (of all things!) and when I got tired of thinking so much I sat in my coffee shop shopping with my nook for another book. Nook's "Related Titles" feature has let me down on more than one occasion. I like it, but it offers a limited number of options and they're not always on the spot. Like with Guernsey Literary etc., for instance. I mean, the author's niece had to finish it up and she's listed as a coauthor, but the fact that I liked that book does not mean that I'll like the niece's books written for children. Not a good guess.

Then I decided to download the sample of Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe by Fanny Flagg. I've been meaning to read it. I download many samples that remain samples. This book, however, was downloaded in full as soon as I reached the end of the sample. I just like the way she writes. It's a good story – this I already knew. But, aside from that its' just a pleasure to read the prose. The blurbs indicate that it's humorous, and I suppose it is. (I'm still reading it, by the way; I haven't finished it.) So far the humor is the subtle way she writes. I haven't laughed out loud so far, but I have desired to keep reading in spite of being hungry and in spite of the fact that I'm sitting in a coffee shop at 4:52PM and I'm supposed to be in Elgin – 30 miles away – at 6 and I still have to shower and change.

So, I have a challenge/request. If you are a woman who is in her 40's or 50's... oh heck, even in your 30's; if you are a man married to a woman in that category; if you know a woman who is over thirty please go to your nearest book place, virtual or physical, and read this chapter. This is going to be difficult because I'm reading it on a Nook and I don't have any way of knowing the page number in a book. The chapter is called "212 Rhodes Circle" but there are several chapters with that name. On my Nook it is on page 49. The subheading is "January 5, 1986". Read this chapter.

It's interesting that I started reading Ulysses, which is often compared to Mrs. Dalloway (I've seen several comparisons, anyway) and this chapter in Fried Green Tomatoes made me think of Mrs. Dalloway. The chapter is not the intense stream of consciousness that the other two novels are, but there is a striking similarity in the emotions that this chapter evokes and those that I recall from Mrs. Dalloway. I thought of Woolf's novel as soon as I finished the chapter; I just didn't connect the dots to Ulysses until just now.

So, gentle reader, please take a moment and read this chapter from this classic from the American South and see if you don't find just a tiny little inkling of resonance with your own life. And, see if the prose doesn't lift you off of your chair and carry you away for just a moment. Then come back and tell me. I want to know.

Waiting to hear from you,

eArnie

The Room

February 12, 2012

I’ve been in my current apartment for about a year an a half. It is a two bedroom apartment and one bedroom is almost half filled with boxes that I haven’t done anything with. At first it was a matter of “I’ll get to them soon.” Then it was “I have unpacked what I need and that’s what’s important.” Now it has become a monster that haunts me.

This story has many levels. First of all, I’m not a hoarder, but I am a pack-rat. So, I have stuff. Everybody in America has stuff. It’s what we do. Imagine the stuff they have in Europe. They’ve been there for thousands of years, not just hundreds. Those attics must be full of pieces of furniture that are hundreds of years old, but that they just can’t bring themselves to part with. Crowns from wardrobes long since removed, doors from buffets. Me? I just have boxes of things that are mostly useful, if I would just sit down and use them.

For instance, I could put some things on my walls. I have one picture hung. That’s it. I have many framed pictures, wrapped in newspapers in boxes along with other pieces of art. I will say for myself that I did unpack a lot of ceramic art and put it on shelves. And, my bookcases look nice… two of them anyway. The one in The Room still needs attention. I can’t get to it at the moment, though. I mean, I literally cannot get to it because of the boxes that are stacked in front of it.

So, what’s going on? I just can’t face it. It’s that simple. It’s like mail. A couple of months ago I overcame my phobia of checking the mail. I think that taking small steps is healthy, as long as I keep taking those small steps. Now that I have begun checking the mail, I need to do something with that mail. I remember there was, when I was growing up, a table by our door that had stacks and stacks of old mail. My dad’s truck had mail completely covering the dashboard and the passenger seat and the floorboard. I’m not trying to slander my father, but I do remember those stacks and my fear of them is one of the things that contributed to my fear of checking the mail. Not checking the mail leads to the post office thinking you’ve moved without telling them and they start returning your mail and soon the companies you do business with start asking what’s going on and then you start saying thing like, “I have no idea why the post office would send my mail back to you marked ‘No forwarding address on file’”, which is a lie and lies only compound themselves and soon you begin to look and feel like the true hoarders and alcoholics who lie and make excuses to justify their behavior while hiding bottles of vodka in the toilet cistern and/or unopened boxes of things they’ve ordered online in closets.

I could come out and say it. I’m a mess. There, I just did. The problem is it’s not cute. When a twenty-something thin blond female says that she’s a mess it’s adorable. When a 40-something, balding overweight single man says it, it’s pathetic. That’s just how I feel about it. When I was a twenty-something thin gay man it would have been adorable as well; I just didn’t realize it at the time.

Recently I got a little sick. I think it was allergies – a really bad case of allergies that kept me in bed for two days. This was the Thursday before Christmas and I was supposed to go to San Antonio on Friday to be with my family. On Thursday I didn’t leave work early because I had gone the entire year without taking any sick time and I wasn’t going to blow it 4 working days before the end of the year. That’s not to say that I was the most productive person that day, but I was there. Friday I got up and was getting ready to go to Boerne to pick up my dad and take him to my sister’s house in San Antonio. I was moving slower than usual, but I was moving. Then I had to sit down and rest just a bit before I took off. Somewhere around 10 AM I realized that I wasn’t going to make it, so I called my sister and she sent her husband – who is just the most awesome person alive – to pick up my dad. (The fact that he drove to Boerne to pick my dad up says a lot about how awesome my brother-in-law is.)

The point of this rambling story is that I stayed in bed all afternoon Thursday after work and then all day Friday and it was WONDERFUL. I read Agatha Christie mystery novels and I slept. I got up every once in a while to get water or soup. My cat, Anastasia, laid right beside me the whole time, just purring away to have me in bed so much. We were a happy house. I repeated this on the day after New Year’s Day and I’m not sure that I was even sick. I think I just wanted to stay in bed all day long and that’s just what I did. I went through many mystery novels during that time. (I choose mystery novels at these times because they’re light reading and don’t take a lot of thought. Notice that I didn’t say Kathy Reichs mystery novels.)

All of this is not getting my second bedroom emptied of boxes, though, nor is it getting anything on my walls. I was looking forward to living on my own so that I could arrange things my way and have fun doing it, and so far I haven’t done very much of it at all. Plus, those boxes are truly becoming the fodder of nightmares and bouts of depression. After a while a person will just lay in bed, immobilized by the pressure of it all.

Another trick is to leave the house. Last weekend I was going to work on that room and then suddenly, inexplicably, I had the Very Urgent Need to have a pouch to keep my rosary in. (That rosary is a story in and of itself.) Obviously I can’t put my attention on the project at hand until I’ve taken care to make sure that my prayer beads are in a pouch and not just thrown carelessly into a drawer of my nightstand or a pocket of my messenger bag. Then, somehow, that trip to find a pouch ended up taking all day and then it was time to go to bed and the next day was Sunday and I spent it with friends and then I was back to work and who could possibly address an issue of this magnitude on a work day?

So, now I’ve decided to address my spare bedroom the same way I would address an overwhelming issue at work. People say that it’s not good to take your work home with you, but if I spent my time at home the way I spend it at work I wouldn’t have issues like this. Somehow I’m very efficient, dedicated and thorough at work. It’s home that I don’t want to face. So, I’m facing it as if it were somebody else’s issue and suddenly it’s become an issue that it much less daunting. I don’t want to jinx myself, because I haven’t actually cleaned out the room or opened all of the boxes. But, I did empty one and peak into some of the others and I think that if I just make piles of like things then it will help 500%. (The boxes were packed rather hastily while I was at work by my ex-roommate who was inordinately anxious to have me out of his home.) So, I stopped to breathe. I stopped to write this down. I stopped to have a salted caramel mocha latte at Starbucks. (I actually was dreaming yesterday morning about a caramel coffee beverage before I woke up.) Now, I sit here at Starbucks and I think I’m ready to face the bedroom that has taken on dungeon characteristics in my mind.

Who knows what I could accomplish next?

Books I Have Loved

I just got in contact, via Facebook, with an old friend from San Antonio and she reminded me of something about myself. I emailed her, “Sarah? Who introduced me to David Foster Wallace?” And she emailed me back, “Earnie? Who does everything fast?” People laugh at me because I talk fast, even though I was raised in the Panhandle of Texas where people talk with a very slow drawl. I tend to do a lot of things fast, or try to, anyway. Working in retail for years and years either led to that or greatly encouraged it. I have – by force and by choice – slowed down a bit. But, my natural state is fast.

However, I never learned to read fast. I have tried. I have skimmed pages and then not noticed one thing that was on them. I have tried to pick up the pace, but my mind wanders and I might as well not be pretending to read. I tend to subvocalize and if I try to stop I, again, might as well be riding a bicycle.

That being said, I do love to read. I love to read on a rainy day; I love to read on a sunny day. I love the thought of going to the bookstore (I don’t do libraries much because I’m not good at taking books back,) and I love to find new authors. And there are so many out there. It’s almost embarrassing the number of authors that line the shelves of the bookstores. Not all of them would I read, but I should never be at a loss for something good to curl up with. When I was younger I would read a good book, like the books from The Dark Is Rising series, and I would have to wait a while after I finished that book to begin another one. I would have to savor the one I just finished for a while. If I tried to dive right into the next book I would find that I couldn’t get into it because I was still enjoying the other one. Looking back that is another example of reading slowly, but I don’t regret it.

Every once in a while in my adult life a special book comes along. I love it when I’m at work and I’m thinking about going home and reading, because the book is so good. And, I won’t say that I read incredibly high-brow literature. As a matter of fact, I didn’t read many of the required readings while I was in school because our school didn’t really require much reading. (From what I understand their curriculum is better now.) So now I’m going back and reading a lot of the books that I probably should have read long, long ago. With mixed reactions.

Not too long ago I was in a very unfortunate financial situation. I had bought a house that I couldn’t afford. Then, I promptly lost my job. So, I wasn’t going out much. I figured that I could afford to spend less than $10 on a book because it could amuse me for a few days, whereas going to a bar or going out to eat could be $20 per night or more. I began reading a couple of mystery series’. I had a new job, earning much less than I had been earning before, and I was working either a second job or as much overtime as I could to make ends meet. On my days/time off I would read in my living room. There was a T.V. there, and I learned to watch it, but I did much better with books. One mystery would usually last me a weekend.

I decided to read Stoker’s Dracula. I picked up a nice edition that happened to have a forward by Elizabeth Kostova, who happened to have written a book called The Historian, which was also about the original vampire. I thoroughly enjoyed Dracula – and it lasted for more than a weekend. This was one of those books that I probably should have read long ago, but I loved it then. It is delicious, unnerving, fascinating and I was surprised to learn that Stoker had never actually been to Central or Eastern Europe. (If that fact is incorrect I apologize, but I don’t realistically have the means to verify it.) Plus, I learned a lot about the origin of all of the other vampire stories that have bloomed since. (Like, that a vampire has to be invited into a home before he can enter it. I saw that in the 2nd episode of True Blood, but that’s another topic for another time.)

I discovered, one day, Kostova’s book, The Historian, in the bargain book section of Barnes & Noble, which meant that I could get the hard-cover for less than the paperback would cost.

I don’t know when I have enjoyed a book so much. The old monasteries and dark crypts, the sociology – both contemporary and early 20th-century – of Eastern Europe, the love stories, the phrase that is now immediately recognizable (I won’t give it away, but read the book and you’ll know what I’m talking about)… I truly looked forward every day to going home to read this book. And, it’s a large volume; it took me lots of days to read it. I was actually sad when I finished it. I licked my fingers and relished it for days if not weeks after I was done. I’ve read a few reviews about it and some were not flattering, but who cares? They might be correct in everything they say, but I still enjoyed it tremendously, and it helped get me through a particularly depressing time. I’ve been longing for another story that could move me so much.

Several years later I found it. A few weeks ago I read, for the first time – and this is embarrassing to admit – To Kill a Mockingbird. I won’t bother to write much about the book itself – I won’t pretend to review it – because what’s left that hasn’t already been written? I can’t believe my high school didn’t require it, though I don’t know that I would have appreciated it back then. It has the magical quality that I have been longing for in a book. I avoided it for years because of the trial, because I knew how the trial turns out in the story and it’s very difficult for me to read about or watch a show about the racism that was so prevalent then. But, the book is so beautiful; the way Scout narrates it is just unbelievably… beautiful. One evening – during the time that I was reading it – my roommate had guests. Part of my job as a roommate is to entertain his guests while he does more important things. However, at one point I slipped away for a few minutes and read a few pages while they sat in the living room unattended. I’ve never left a guest alone like that before and I probably won’t ever again; it’s just not right, even if they’re not my guests. But, that’s how much I wanted to read this book. Even though it reminds me of how wretched we are as human beings, it also reminds me of how beautiful life can be.

Well, now you know my secret. There are other books that I haven’t read that I should. I finally read Great Expectations and perhaps I’m just missing something, but I didn’t think it was magical. I’m glad I did so that I can understand references to it, and I’m not saying it isn’t a great book. I’ll accept it if I’m accused of having shallow, unrefined taste. Maybe another Dickens novel will read better for me, or maybe in 10 years I will have developed as a reader. (I doubt it.) I like to read Agatha Christie for fun because it doesn’t require a lot of thought. Dorothy Sayers is good, and relaxing as well. Now I’m looking for that next magical book experience. But, I’ll wait a while for it. I’m still savoring Harper Lee’s. :-)

e A r n i e