march book fail, and other fun stuff.

Well, I've certainly not been my usual bloggy self lately, have I?  In my defense, I have been working a ton.  Working and writing and emailing friends.  Totally an acceptable series of excuses.

It is the last day of March, and I can say without any real surprise that I didn't reach my reading goal this time around.  Meh.  Plain Kate was too good.  It sort of turned me off to anything that was't just like it.  I tried to read a book I'd never heard of, that jumped out at me at the library, since it was fantasy like Plain Kate, and in third person, like Plain Kate.  But it just hasn't hooked me yet.  Maybe I'll still read it (I think I'd like to, I really do), but not this time around.  So then I checked out Howl's Moving Castle, which I've always wanted to read.  Surprisingly, I haven't gotten into it yet, either!  I mean, I'm enjoying it, I'm just not reading it.  Am I flickering out?  Again, I cite working too much and writing too much (der, that's supposed to be a good thing) and emailing friends.  You know who you are.

Oh, wait, I have one more excuse to file: spending too much time online.  How does one break such a habit?

For the past few days, I've been thinking, I have to post something.  I have to post something.  Why can't I think of anything?  What's wrong with me?  So, since my brain is currently fried with working and writing and emailing and wasting time online, I thought I would share with you some of the interesting things I've learned, lately.

First of all, what the heck?  It is incorrect to insert two spaces after a period?  You really should only use one?  It's an actual thing.  It's true.  What?  I mean, this post has two spaces between sentences, and I don't think it looks too bad, but it is wrong.  Wrong, I say.  I cannot wrap my mind around this (and, I'm overreacting a little bit, too).  I remember being taught in school to use two spaces.  I remember that!  What were those teachers trying to do to my brain?  Now I have to unlearn the double space. Must. Try. Does this look better? Is that why it's the rule? I am never going to get anything written if I have to spend so much brainpower correcting my impulse to double space.

Another thought: I was always taught that boys have blond hair and girls have blonde hair, but I've been noticing lately that everyone seems to have blond hair.  These are the sorts of things an untrained mind wants to be sure of before embarrassing herself in front of professionals (you like how I highlighted that double space?  Yeah, even after writing about it, I still can't change it.  Doh!  Did it again, and again, and again.  This is what editors are for, right?).

Also, a few weeks ago, Laini Taylor posted the best-ever thing about writing beginnings, and you should read it.  [I'll be here when you finish.]  

Isn't her writing advice just the best?  Or maybe it goes a little beyond advice and into the realm of a real education.  If she ever writes a book on writing, I will be first in line.  I love the idea of asking myself questions to iron out development.  And with the revision stage looming in front of me, I'm starting to get really excited about figuring all this stuff out.  No guarantees on the outcome, but it should be a fun ride.

Oh, and one more excuse: I'm still not over the Jennifer Lawrence thing.  How could I be?  It has turned me into a veritable casting rat, and I'm trying trying trying to not care about who gets cast in the rest of the roles.  Trying.  Failing.  So, if you really couldn't care less about who lands what in the Hunger Games, just ignore this next part.

The most amusing thing I've seen in casting possibilities is this:

As Gale.  Baha.  Bahahaha.  Oh...  Oh, no....  I mean, don't get me wrong, I think David Henrie is great.  But he is so goofy, and I would thinking about Wizards of Waverly Place the whole time.  That can't be right.

The most exciting one I've seen is this:

As Prim!  Oh, Joey King.  Oh, this would make me so happy.

And, since I have to share my opinion on this matter, 

the boy I'd most like to see as Peeta:

I know, I KNOW, he doesn't have blond hair.  I know.  But... I like him.  I like him more than almost all the other guys who are up for the part.  And, I mean, Jennifer Lawrence is blond(e?), and if they can dye her hair to be Katniss, they can dye Josh Hutcherson's hair to be Peeta.  I hope.

See?

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Okay, maybe not.  But I'm not giving up on him yet.

in which i gush over plain kate, etc.

I stayed in bed until 12:30 today, reading a book.  And not just any book.  It's my new of-many-favorites book: Plain Kate, by Erin Bow.  I cannot begin to describe all the reasons I loved it.  Here's a list, to get my brain going:

1.  It was beautifully written, and I mean that in the most genuine sense.  Meager broken lines away from being considered verse (in my book).
2.  There is a talking cat.
3.  You both love and fear the villain (Can you even call him that?  Genius).
4.  It's a story about friendship and family, a breath of fresh air after so much boysboysboyskissingkissing.
5.  There are boats, and I love boats.
6.  I cried at the end, but I'm not depressed.
7.  The heart and message are intriguing and incredible.
8.  The magic is terrifying.
9.  The story is concise.  No wandering around without purpose, thinking.  Every scene fills a role.
   and...
10.  I am, for the first time in a while, not left to wish the author had done something different.

That's a pretty concise view of my opinion, actually.  Oh, but this is so hard, because I want so badly to tell you everything, but then you won't read it, and I really think it would be better for you if you just read it.  I have to be honest, I haven't felt this way about a book in a long time.  I've read a lot of great books in the past year, but this is one of maybe a fistful that call out to me in a different way.  I loved The Hunger Games, of course.  Brilliant.  But something unique happens when I read a story I not only wish I could have written, but also encapsulates the kind of writing I think I actually could do.  That was a muddle of a sentence.  What I mean is, as much as I loved THG, and as much as I would love to write something that awesome one day, it just doesn't feel like me.  Plain Kate feels like me, like what I think my voice could be.  And it's so cool and inspiring to read, and it fills me with confidence.  Or, if nothing else, encouragement.  I want to write this kind of book.

The last time I felt this way, for anyone who's interested, was after I read Lips Touch: Three Times, by Laini Taylor.  My semi-embarrassing review (which she actually read, and then thanked me for, if you can believe that-- I know, I about peed my pants) can be found right here.  And, hey, now that I think about it, guess how I found out about Plain Kate?  Laini Taylor.  Talk about full circle.

And, no, of course I'm not jumping up and down like a hyper kitty over the upcoming release of Laini's next book, Daughter of Smoke and Bone.  Of course not.  Silly you for even thinking that.

So, yes.  It's been a good day.

why, today, i am a grown up:

We bought furniture!  That's right, after a year and three months of marriage, we finally bought new furniture.  And if you'd told me six years ago that I'd be blogging about such things, I would have said, "Well, then it must be an awesome table."  And I would have been right.

Granted, this picture does it very little justice.  Ours has a distressed white wash (without really looking white), and the wood is a lot less even on top.  So, picture that, and you have our new table!  It's modest, sure, but that's perfect for us right now.  Mm, mm, mm.  We also got two (burnt orange stripedy) chairs and a (sage green) bench to go with it (both upholstered), plus the most wonderful, whimsical serving console on the planet.  I have no idea how to find a picture of it online, but it looks like something Laini Taylor would blog about.  And if you're going to trust anyone's taste, trust hers.

Sigh.  I know this is kind of a weird post for me, but I was too excited not to share.  I'll put up pictures once everything is in place.  I can tell that Joshua and I are going to have a very cabin-y home, full of old doors and up-cycled railroad ties for furniture.  And the best-- the best!-- thing about this little table is that once we have need for a larger dining table, it will work as a desk.  For me!  It's called a Palma Desk, in fact.  Now, how is that not just meant to be?  It practically has my name!

gregorific.

Adj.  Simultaneously awesome and depressing.

Maybe we should call it Suzannetastic, actually.  It would mean the same thing.

No, but really.  I loved these books.  It was both very like and very unlike reading The Hunger Games.  Similarities:  violence and adventure and anti-war themes.  Differences:  a more juvenile voice, more fantastical elements, and a boy's perspective rather than a girl's.

There is something I love about a boy's point of view, and I don't really know why.  I'm a girl, so you'd think it would be the other way around, but no.  Heck, my own current writing project is from a boy's perspective.  A good chunk of my favorite books are also male POV, now that I think about it.  Life of Pi, for one.  Also, Harry freaking Potter.  And, of course, Gregor.  But also White Cat and Looking For Alaska, both of which I read last month, and The Replacement, which I read back in the fall and then never wrote about, but probably should have because I really enjoyed it.  Let's see...  I think my favorite read of the past year is still Lips Touch, by Laini Taylor, and about a third of that (maybe more, depending on how you define POV) was told through male characters.  I don't know why I'm rambling about this, but it's funny to think about because even growing up, I always got along a little better with boys than I ever did with girls.  Maybe it's because I have a brother and no sisters.  Plus, with male main characters I can have crushes.  With female main characters, they have the crushes.  NotthatthismattersanymorebecauseIammarried.  Ahem.  [Also, this is not an absolute rule because I have both disliked male MCs, and adored male side characters told from female perspectives: examples:  Harry Potter: boo, get over yourself.  Peeta Mellark:  oh my gosh I think I married you.  It is time to move on to another topic.]

Anyway!  Also, like The Hunger Games, Gregor left me in a stupor.  A haze.  Because life sucks and then you die, but there are so many important things to learn from it along the way.  Like, quit killing each other!
[P.s. While typing "are so" just now, I accidentally forgot the space bar and ended up with the word "ares."  Ares!!!!  I want a pet bat.  Just so I could name him after the bats in the series.]

I meant for this to be more about Gregor and less about other things, but it doesn't seem to be working.  Here's something awesome, though:  The Gregor books were published annually from 2003 to 2007, and then The Hunger Games books picked up and were published in '08, '09, and '10, respectively.  Which is to say, Suzanne Collins is an absolute machine.  Is she publishing anything this year?  Goodness knows I will devour it and then be depressed by it, but still love it.

fifteen authors who have shaped me in some way.

1.  Shel Silverstein.
     I assume that most would add this man to their list for such things as The Giving Tree, but honestly, he's on my list for the audiobooks of Where The Sidewalk Ends and A Light In The Attic, which I demanded to hear on just about every road trip I went on from the ages of 5 to 13, probably.  The man's voice was like a creepy, buttery lullaby that made you want to stay up and hear more, and then stay awake thinking about it.  So, not too successful as a lullaby.  Brilliant as narration.  Also, seriously, I cannot help but *adore* Runny Babbit.  Don't you?  It grieves me that Silverstein died before its publication.  I would have loved to hear him recite it.

2.  Lois Lowry.
    I know so little [read: nothing] about this author outside the realm of The Giver, but, oh.  The Giver.

3.  CS Lewis.

     I used to sit in the corner of my grandparents' huge walk-in closet, turn off the lights and wait for Narnia to come.  Enough said.

4.  Harper Lee.
     I read To Kill a Mockingbird on a camping trip with my family the summer I turned 14.  Changed my life.  It made me want to (a), play Scout on stage, even though I was already way too old, (b), name something, possibly a daughter, Harper (which is still totally in the mix, as far as I'm concerned), and (c), though I didn't fully realize it at the time, be a writer.

5.  Tim O'Brien.
     I loved reading The Things They Carried in 11th grade.  I vividly remember sitting under the table in English class, devouring it and being thoroughly creeped-out.

6.   Ernest Hemingway.

     I will be honest, the only Hemingway I've actually read is A Farewell to Arms, and I pretty much hated it. Why on earth is he on my list, then?  Because I grew up going to Key West every summer, that's why.  I used to beg my parents to take me to his house, again and again, mostly to see the the six-toed cats.  But as I got older, I appreciated the whole thing a lot more.  I love seeing his pictures all over the wall at Sloppy Joe's.  Regardless of how you feel about him, isn't it incredible to sit where he sat?

7.  JK Rowling.

     I know this one is a given for any human being even remotely interested in literature who was alive (and most likely young) from 1998 until now, but it is irrefutable.  Nothing re-reads quite as delightfully as a Harry Potter book.  Especially on the back deck at my parents' house in the middle of summer, or on the choir tour bus back in high school, or out-loud in a car with someone you love.

8.  Christina Rosetti.
     Poets were supposed to be included in this, and I wish I had more, but the first one to come to mind is always Christina Rosetti, for Goblin Market.

9.  Anne Lamott.
     Bird by Bird is the best college textbook I ever didn't buy for class.  I invested in my own copy post-graduation, because I knew it was special and I missed it (I had borrowed it and, honestly, not done very much of the reading when I was supposed to).

10.  Kelly Link.
     When I first read her short story Monster, it absolutely astounded me.  It's a bizarre, enchanting, ultimately horrifying little tale about a kid getting picked on at summer camp, and, you know, a monster.  I love it.  I can't get over the voice.  She writes the way I want to write.  I don't know how else to explain it.  Also, I read a collection of her short fiction on my honeymoon, and so her voice will always sort of remind me of that, too.

11.  Yann Martel.
     What is it about Life of Pi?  The philosophy is often over my head (as most things are), I don't really agree with Pi's religious convictions, and I still have no stinking clue what happens at the end.  But I love this book terribly, and if I get to thinking about it too much, I always want to re-read it.  It's the way the man writes, that's what.

12.  Dodie Smith.
     "I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.  That is, my feet are in it; the rest of me is on the draining-board, which I have padded with our dog's blanket and a tea-cosy.  I can't say that I am really comfortable, and there is a depressing smell of carbolic soap, but this is the only part of the kitchen where there is any daylight left.  And I have found that sitting in a place where you have never sat before can be inspiring-- I wrote my very best poem while sitting on the hen-house.  Though even that isn't a very good poem.  I have decided my poetry is so bad that I mustn't write any more of it."
     --is my favorite opening paragraph of any book I have ever read.  If you haven't yet had the absolute joy of diving into I Capture the Castle, just know that I cannot recommend it enough.  It is perhaps my true favorite, and has been for a couple of years.  It's so... melodic.  So sweet.  Honest.  Beautifully written.  Romantic (really, how can you not love a boy like Stephen Colly?).  And, in some places, completely hilarious.  I could go on and on.  Also, this woman wrote The 101 Dalmatians, and who doesn't love that?

13.  Sheldon Vanauken.
     I finally finished A Severe Mercy this past winter, and it... was... what?  Are there words to describe this man's story?  I bawled.  I learned.  I grew.  And, hey, the man was friends with Jack himself, and a good portion of the book is their correspondence.  Sharing in the grief of the women they loved.  We had a passage from it read at our wedding.  Sounds macabre, I know, but it was perfect: all about God defining a marriage.  Beautiful stuff.

14.  Laini Taylor.
     On a much, much lighter note, here is another author who writes the way I want to write.  In an effort to seem hip and reviewer-y, I wrote this post about her book Lips Touch, which is way more awesome than it may sound (the book, not my review.  The review is... just a review).

15.  Suzanne Collins.
     Here we go.  Deep breath.  The Hunger Games.  Catching Fire.   Mockingjay.  I do not know how she did it, but Suzanne Collins absolutely broke me (in a good way, kind of) with Katniss's story.  Please, friends.  Please.  Read these books.  I tore through the whole trilogy twice in five weeks, if that's any indication of my feelings.  The story is unforgettable.  And that's all I can say without turning into a total fangirl.

because i want to write reviews.

Lips Touch: Three Times, by Laini Taylor  

Let me just start by saying, the maxim "don't judge a book by its cover" was coined for this one. I wanted to read Lips Touch because I wanted to read Laini Taylor (I enjoy her blog immensely).  I went for Lips Touch, let's be honest, I hesitated a little based on the pouty, red-lipped vixen on the cover.  I'm still not even sure who it's supposed to be, and it's a tad too romancey for my taste.  Fortunately, the Amazon preview started with the first chapter and not the little intro, and these were the first words I read (I'm not sure if "There is a certain kind of girl the goblins crave," would have caught me in quite the same way):

Kizzy's family lived in the weird house outside of town with all the anvils in the yard and the tick-ridden billy goat that rammed the fenced whenever anyone walked past.

And I was hooked.  I fell in love with that crazy billy goat, man.  I read the rest of the preview (which may have been the first three pages- not enough for me to realize what it was even about), and wanted to read more.  When my copy came in the mail, I slipped off the pouty-lipped dust jacket and haven't picked it up since.  Because the art on the inside is plain magical.  The first images I saw made me squeal:  Christina Rossetti's Goblin Market remains my favorite of all the poems I've studied.  I thought to myself several times, looking at the opening illustrations, "How did she know?"  As if it had occurred to Laini Taylor one day, "Hey, this is Julie's favorite poem, I should write a short story about it."  I get this way about what I read/see sometimes, harboring secret convictions that it was made just for me.

You know how sometimes a particular film/book/experience reaches you in a certain way based on the film/book/experience that came right before it?  For example, two of my favorite plays to be a part of in college were JB and The Hiding Place, because they followed the grueling hard work of Spitfire Grill and Arsenic and Old Lace, respectively, BOTH of which featured my playing an old lady (blech).  In JB and The Hiding Place, though the work was still hard, I relished in my smaller roles and was able to enjoy the camaraderie of the whole thing a lot more.  This book was like that.  It's my most recent read in a long, long line of grueling hard work: Going Bovine, which made me feel like I'd gone bonkers and then depressed me horribly, St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves, wherein very few stories actually felt as though they had come to an end before the author just quit writing them, The Invention of Hugo Cabret, which was beautifully done, but heartbreakingly lacking in the story department, Toby Alone and Toby and the Secrets of the Tree, which left me vaguely happy, because happy endings do that-- until I'd thought about it for a few days, and now I wonder, really?  

On my birthday, I started reading Lips Touch, and relished in my smaller role.  It was fun.  I was able to kick back and enjoy the camaraderie.  There was no terminal illness (or freaking insanity) to deal with, no unfinished ideas that made me feel stupid, no questionable or unbelievable motivations, no confusion over which character I was supposed to be following (there was a twist in this area in the third story, Hatchling, but I loved it)...  I didn't really get mad at the writing, or the illustrations, though I remain a tad peeved over the cover, mostly since it does not fit the rest of the book.  Sort of like a strange costuming choice that makes the audience cock their heads to the side in unison when it appears, and later whisper, "I don't know what all that was about.  But didn't you love it when--"

Okay.  I'm not going to mention the cover art anymore.

Let's talk about the stories.

The opening story, Goblin Fruit, is a direct descendant of Rossetti's Goblin Market, as earlier implied.  It follows the "but what happened next" path, though it skips a couple of generations.  I really like the name Kizzy.  I like that it's related to Lizzie, the name of the girl in Rossetti's original.  And I like that she's just far enough removed from her grandmother's story to not really care when it comes down to it.  And without giving too much away, I love the final illustration (not the one pictured here, a different one).  At first I skimmed over it, thinking, "Oh, the grandmother," but when I looked back earlier today, I think I figured it out.  Is that not Kizzy herself?  I kind of hope so.  And, wow.

The synopsis of the book states that all three of these stories hinge on a first kiss, but I would argue that this first story is the only one that really does.  They all involve first kisses, but this is the only one where anything actually hinges on it.  And I like that.

The middle story, Spicy Little Curses Such As These, was much stronger than the first (which is saying a lot, because the first was pretty dang good), and featured one of the most fascinating characters I've ever encountered: Anamique, whose voice will kill anyone who hears it and has successfully remained silent for 18 years.  And as wacky as that sounds, the beauty of this woman's writing is that you actually believe it.

The final story, Hatchling, takes up the whole second half of the book, and it was my favorite.  I had no stinking clue what was going on for the longest time, but once it started coming together, man, it took my breath away.  I loved so many specific things, but I'll let you read it if you want, so you can enjoy all the sweet morsels as they come.  I especially loved (as alluded to above) the multiple points of view.  At first, you might pinpoint Esme as the main girl, the one to follow, until you learn about her mother, Mab, or meet Mihai, who tastes like a river.  It's his story you're really following, in which Esme only plays a part.  It's pretty awesome, guys, whether you like fantasy or not.  I will say that parts of this story were a tad too mature for younger readers, but all was handled with such great taste that I didn't even realize how disturbed I should have been until later.  And yes, that's a good thing.

I have to be honest, as much as I love the Market, Goblin Fruit was probably my least favorite story of Lips Touch.  I even contemplated taking the whole thing to McKay's,  very early on, not because I didn't like it, but because I thought it would be nothing more than a fun read.  Wrong-o.  The rest of the book turned me all the way around.  It wasn't just a fun read, it was a quality read.  Sorry, McKay's.  I mean, McKay.  You can have half the books I mentioned earlier, but I'm keeping Lips Touch.

*all illustrations (minus the cover of St. Lucy's) by Jim Di Bartolo.