Book Report--January

So I'm determined to report my reading monthly this year instead of those huge yearly reports. I did a lot of reading in January, especially after I finished my book. YES! I finished my novel! As in, all completely done. As in, it has reached my satisfaction. The only revisions I'll do from here on out will be those requested by agents and editors (if I should be so lucky). It feels SOOOOOOO good to reach a point where I can let it go. I feel it has achieved the measure of its creation now and I can move on.

So . . . reading.

POETRY/ESSAY/MEMOIR
Best of Mormonism 2009 edited by Stephen Carter. I would have liked this better if I hadn't already read many of the pieces. I wonder what it would be like to read it all fresh. I especially enjoyed Lance Larsen's essay.

Donkey Gospel by Tony Hoagland. I really like Hoagland, and reading him again now made me happy and reminded me that I really do want to be a poet. Some of his poetry is a little too hairy for me to recommend, but I have many, many corners folded down in this collection. I especially liked his poem about Berkeley. I've been trying to write one about Berkeley for years, but now I don't have to because he did it so well.

JF/YA
Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis. This one was a little slow getting started for me. I enjoyed the voice, though, and the details. About an orphaned boy who goes looking for his father and ends up with a combo jazz band.

FICTION
Old School by Tobias Woff. The BEST thing I've read all year (well, along with The Help and Olive Kitteridge). I can't think of a book more perfect for me, really. It's about a boys' boarding school in the northeast in the 60s which has several writing contests each year. The winner of each contest gets to meet with a visiting author. The authors who visit this particular year are Robert Frost, Ayn Rand, and Ernest Hemingway. Great! Wish it had been twice as long. I'm grateful to my friend Jenny for recognizing it as being perfect for me. It's funny how much I associate books with the people who recommend them. Jenny also recommended The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down years ago. Similarly, I still remember who recommended The Poisonwood Bible to me (Liz), the short stories of Wallace Stegner (Kathryn), and others from years and years ago.

19th Wife by David Ebershoff. Actually, I didn't read it; I listened to it. And I have to confess that I didn't finish it. It might not have been so negative of an experience if the narrator hadn't been so awful. A harsh, sarcastic-sounding woman who practically spit out all her words narrated large portions of it and I finally couldn't stand to listen to her any more. I don't have a problem hearing about the negative things in church history, actually. But I just got tired of the downer-ness of this.

Girl with a Dragon Tattoo by Steig Larsson. This is a translation from Swedish and is apparently a big book this year. It was quite gripping, although a little yucky in places, and had an interesting twist at the end. I wouldn't read another by him but it was entertaining. About a financial journalist who investigates a very old unsolved murder.

The Namesake by Jumpha Lahiri. I really enjoy Lahiri's style, her way of lingering on details about her characters. Reading her makes me a better writer without sacrificing entertainment. Her work is very character driven. This one was about a boy who is named after the Russian author Gogol but doesn't discover why until adulthood.

Why I Married the Best One (not inclusive)

1. He's just as uptight as I am about following rules and being absolutely honest.
2. He smells sooooooo good.
3. He's always warm, especially when we first climb into bed and my toes are freezing. And he lets me put my toes behind his knees even then.
4. He buys all of my cosmetics and hair care products because I hate to spend money on myself.
5. When I do spend money on myself (for clothes, for example), he cheers.
6. He doesn't care what he eats and thinks it's ridiculous for me to spend hours cleaning when he can't tell the difference anyway.
7. He's the best dad in the world, most of all because he is a model of calmness, patience and peacemaking, and because he so obviously adores his children's mother.
8. He's willing to camp and even seems to like it.
9. He lets me drag him to watch football.
10. He's absolutely convinced me that he wants to see me continue in my education and my writing, and cheerfully shells out money and time to support me in these things. Also, he lets me drag him to various functions with my "writing friends."
11. He has also absolutely convinced me that he thinks I'm gorgeous.
12. He gives the BEST back massages, much better than any professional I've had.
13. He loves to paint my toenails.
14. He willingly adjusted our lives to MY sleeping schedule, as we agreed before we were married, seeing as I turn into a pumpkin after 10:00 p.m.
15. Those gorgeous eyes.
16. He's great at what he does professionally.
17. He listens, listens, listens.
18. He likes Noteworthy a cappella as much as I do.
19. He sings.
20. He's the only thing I want, besides my bed, when I feel sick.

I love you, sweetheart, 17 times more than I did when we married 17 years ago today. Thank you for making my life so good.

Writing Friends

I have some amazingly gifted writing friends. Many of them are also successful in their writing. None, probably, as successful as they'd like to be, but there are some impressive accomplishments among them. Some are up-and-coming and have their biggest success in front of them.

I envy all of them to various degrees and in various ways.

But one thing that makes me sad is when they doubt themselves. I guess it's common in a writer to both think, secretly, that maybe you have something here and also dread that you're really just faking it and not talented at all. But when I see someone I think is really and truly talented doubt herself, it hurts. But I suffer from the same anxieties and truly have no concept of whether I myself am talented or not, so I can't blame them. I just wish I could figure out a better way of encouraging myself and others while simultaneously spurring us all on to be better.

I guess it's kind of like life. When I feel God's love for me and a sense of my own value, I want to be better, and my efforts and desires bring me joy. But when I doubt my value, my efforts to be better are drudgery and encouragement from leaders and others doesn't feel good. How can I, as a friend to writers, give them great feelings of value while also offering criticism that will bring them joy? How can I get that for myself?

Kudos to my own writer's group, by the way, who recently convinced me to take up my novel once again. Their praise gives me the energy to look at its flaws and get into the ring once again. I am so blessed to have such smart, well-read women whose opinion I can trust when they say, "Yes, it's worth continuing. You can do it."

Haiti

This morning I ran out of hot water in the shower, which is not surprising since I was the third or fourth to shower before school. The loss felt more than irritating; I felt personally insulted, as if my housemates’ lack of consideration were somehow personal. I felt as if the universe were neglecting me. “Poor, motherless me. Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I'm going to go eat worms.”

And then I thought of Haiti. And what it means to have a shower stall. In a house. To have all that water available to me for washing.

And, of course, I was ashamed.

And then I was even more ashamed for using Haiti—-the huge, unthinkable, un-wrappable-by-my-brain tragedy of everything—-as a prod for my piddling, shallow little insight. As if I had used the edge of a chainsaw to pry up a nail. How dare I think of Haiti and use it as a reason to be grateful for a SHOWER?

But how else—tell me!—how else can I possibly think about it?

Who's That Girl?

Recently I was at a female social gathering. There was a girl there (I say girl because everyone who is about my age or younger is a girl, of course), who was absolutely charming. I mean, this chick lights up a room. I was fascinated by her intelligent and hilarious way of telling a story—any story about anything that had happened to her. I wanted to hang around her because she was so smart and made me laugh. Other people wanted to hang around her, too, for the same reason, of course. I found myself acting goofy, like a young girl in love or something. I wanted this girl to keep talking--but, more than that, I wanted her to want to talk to me. And then, I also wanted her to listen to me. And to like me. And to want me for a friend. And, most importantly, to think I was very clever and funny, too.

I’ve been thinking about this desire of mine, feeling a little embarrassed by it. I’m sure I’m not the only one in the world who has wanted clever and funny people to think I’m clever and funny. Or, for that matter, to want dumb, boring people to think I’m clever and funny.

But it feels so shallow. I shouldn’t care whether people think I’m clever and funny, right? I should just be content to BE clever and funny.
No, I should just be content to BE.

What if I could even go one step further and not only NOT care what people think of me but actually be thinking about something else entirely during my interactions with people? What if I could concentrate that hard on what other people think . . . not about me, but about themselves? What if, after I have been to a party, people go home thinking NOT how clever I was but how much they like themselves? Wouldn’t it be cool if I were the kind of person that people don’t remember, but who leaves greater self-esteem where she’s been?

I love this idea. But I have found that it is extremely difficult to remember to act on it. Once I get into a social situation, my insecurities force me to start trying to prove myself. Oh yes, I’ve read the important books, I have the important opinions, and I state them so very wisely that you wish you had said them first. All of it shallow and empty in the long run, which I remember as soon as I walk out the door.

And the thing is, if I ever achieve the ability to be the kind of other-centered, self-esteem builder that I would like to be, I’m not sure I would even know it. I suppose the only clue I’d get is that at the end of an evening I would find that the time had flown and I was not left feeling insecure or longing. At least, that would be a good sign that I hadn’t been self-conscious, anyway. Which means that I had either been concentrating on others or just plain old enjoying myself. Both of which are very fine options, IMO.

What is art?

Check out my post over at Mormonletters today.

Book Report

Well, I had hoped to update my book reports monthly but so much for that. If I weren't so lazy and tech-challenged I would take the time to put my book reports on my side bar. But I am. Sue me. So here's what I've been reading lately:

Non-fiction:

The Middle Place by Kelly Corrigan. This is a memoir about a woman's diagnosis of breast cancer, which comes at the same time as her own father's diagnosis of cancer. I guess this chick is famous for an essay she wrote about female friendship, which is included at the back of the book. I found the book interesting, but felt that it fell a little short of what it could have been as far as depth.

The Dancing Wu-Li Masters, by Gary Zukav. This one has been on my list for ages. I really like the CONCEPT of it, and occasionally really enjoyed it. But it got a little long and definitely wasn't one I could read in bed or in any state of drowsiness. Sometimes I thought the guy was pushing it a little, the comparison of physics and Eastern religious thought. It got a little hoaky. But interesting.

Christlike Parenting and The Power of Positive Parenting by Glen Latham. I'd explored Positive Parenting before, but that was a long time ago when my kids were in very different stages. This time, the ideas and, especially, the philosophy behind the ideas, were very significant to me. The only problem is that, although simple, it is a lot to learn in terms of training myself to think and act differently. But I heartily agree with this approach and am hoping to implement it more. I think I'll have to re-read this stuff periodically.

Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortensen and David Oliver Relin. I sometimes make it a point to avoid the books that everyone is reading, especially if everyone happens to be the women's book groups who loved Tuesdays with Morrie (blech). I hate "feel-good" books. But I didn't read this one, I listened to it as I jogged, and it wasn't too bad. It's the true story of a guy who builds schools in Afghanistan. It definitely gives a good and interesting picture of what life is like in the small villages of Afghanistan and Pakistan.

The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance by Elna Baker. OK, once I could get over my biological aversion to the navel gazing inherent in memoirs, I found this very entertaining. But I didn't feel like this chick ultimately succeeded in portraying a real Mormon. Sometimes she got her details wrong (she quotes "I Love to See the Temple"--or maybe it was "I Have a Family Here on Earth"--can't remember which--as an illustration at one point of how she has grown up to view the temple or eternal families--but gets the words wrong!). I'm thinking, "You're trying to make such a big deal about the cultural clash you embody as a Mormon in New York, but I'm not sure you're really nailing the Mormon part of the culture." There are other examples. But it's interesting reading if you have a high tolerance for some squirmy subjects.

Between Parent and Child by Dr. Haim G. Ginott. Another book on positive parenting. Not as good as the others but still good.

Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. I really enjoyed this one, especially the middle section on meditation. In fact, one part of it led to a very important discovery about myself. I've begun meditating formally again as a result.

Fiction

In This Sign by JoAnn Grenberg. Can't remember where I got this recommendation, but I was glad for it. It's a novel about a deaf family and their hearing daughter. Outdated in voice and pacing, it was still a really interesting glimpse into the world of the deaf.

Carmelita by Sandra Cisneros. I really enjoy Cisneros in general, but there is one little section of this book that I will never forget. It goes in the file in my mind of things I wish I had written. It's a little scene in which some children try to see the underwear of a servant girl. Heart-breakingly poignant. Cisneros is a poet writing fiction. Sometimes, though, she gets a little carried away with the poetry. I got tired of the lists and lists of details, though they are colorful, loveable details.

The Lace Reader by Brunonia Barry. This one kept me reading but was ultimately a little disappointing. I felt that some aspects of the story that had seemed promising were basically dropped. Like the whole reading lace part--it ended up being sort of a non-issue. And it was poorly edited. Nice plot twist at the end, though.

The Actor and the Housewife by Shannon Hale. I know this one is a little controversial, but here's my take. It kept me reading, but not as much as some of Hale's other things. I happen to be in the camp that such a relationship as this cannot not do serious harm to a marriage. I think even if the guy had been a girl, the friendship was dangerous for the health of the marriage. But that's just me.

The Likeness by Tana French. Thanks to Angela for recommending this mystery about an undercover investigator who impersonates someone she looks just like. I kept reading.

A Town Like Alice by Nevil Shute. I actually listened to this one on my mp3 player and it was delightful. I'm not sure how gripping it would have been to me if I had been reading it, but I really enjoyed this sweet story about a woman who falls in love with a man from Australia when they meet in the Pacific during World War II.

Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout. One of my all-time favorites, and one I plan to buy (I rarely buy books). A collection of short stories that are very lovingly character-driven. I was especially interested in the way mental illness is portrayed. Another one I wish I had written. (Hmm. Is that the highest praise I can give? How very egotistical and selfish of me.)

The Help by Kathryn Stockett. Another of the best books I read all year. It's about a white woman during the 60's who wants to collect the stories of the black women who serve in the households of her southern town.

The Treehouse by Douglas Thayer. Thayer's style wears on me after a while, but you can't beat his honesty. I especially appreciated the Korea section.

Cutting For Stone by Abraham Verghese. Another of my favorites this year. I listened to this one, but it is definitely worth reading. About a hospital in Ethiopia and some boys who grow up there. (Like all really good books, it's sort of hard to get the whole feeling of the thing into one sentence.) Just trust me--it's a good read.

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies by Seth Grahame-Smith and Jane Austen. I'll save you a lot of time: you can get all there is to get out of this by reading the first two or three chapters. All the rest is just more of the same. It was a disappointment to me--I would have liked to see the changes more significantly impact the plot. Oh, well.

Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Neufenegger. I felt it was my duty to read this, since it had a ghost as a character. The first half of the book really gripped me but then things got kind of, well, just gross and then I lost patience with how much I was being asked to believe. A disappointment.

Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette by Sena Jeter Naslund. It took a while for me to get into the groove of this one--at first the descriptive language was irritation. But after a while I settled into it, accepting all the details as the kinds of things that the POV character (Marie herself) would have noticed. After that, the book was very enjoyable, especially to listen to.

YA/JF
The Misfits by James Howe. This is probably a fantastic YA book for people who like YA. I myself couldn't finish it. I do actually like SOME YA. But some are so much story, and so lite otherwise. I can't really put my finger on what's missing. I'm sure this is a very cute book.

Sounder by William Armstrong. This is a little book that won the Newberry many years ago--and it reads like it. I mean the many years ago part. We've made some progress as far as voice goes in the last century, I think. But the story is a sweet one, about a poor black son who leaves his family in search of his father who was sentenced to work on a chain gang. Can't imagine kids reading this much today.

The Higher Power of Lucky by Susan Patron. A quiet little story about a foster child afraid her new guardian won't want to keep her. Why are so many children's stories about parentless kids? (I ask this as a writer of a book about a girl whose mother is dead.) Anyway, I liked this book IN CONCEPT but found it rather hard to finish.

I Heart You, You Haunt Me by Lisa Schroeder. Another one I read as research for my own novel since it has a ghost boyfriend for a character. This one is told in verse--but not good verse. The kind that is made when people think short lines make verses. Not much going on here but a simplistic plot but I suppose it is very appealing to teenage girls.

Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins. This is the sequel to The Hunger Games and, like all second books in trilogies, feels like a second book in a trilogy. Still, I read it very fast and can't wait for the third.

Not a Year in Review

I refuse to do it.

So, rather than get a recap of my year here, let me just give you a State of the Union Address:

I'm starting to get old, physically and mentally. There are wrinkles and sags and lost vocabulary words.

But I desperately hope that I'm starting to get old emotionally. Time to grow up, baby.

As 2009 ended, I became aware that now more than ever I need to learn how to be in the moment. I've always lived somewhere else; it's time for me to learn how to live right here.

I am a daughter of God, His work and glory. I am already OK the way I am. The Atonement has made it so that all is well. I don't have to make up for all the ways I fall short; I need only take care of what's right here. I accept the Atonement and myself. I will live each moment completely because it is already perfect.

That is my only resolution.

(But as for goals, I do have one: to do one more huge revision of my book in January, and start sending it out.)

Sugar

. . . I'm giving it up.

Maybe. I think. Hopefully.

It's been about two weeks. I haven't done it very thoroughly--I give myself one day a week off. And I haven't eliminated white bread and rolls. And I bend the rules a little with non-desserts, such as yogurt. And I put honey on my grape nuts.

But still. Compared to how much I used to eat, this is a big step.

I haven't stipulated a time-frame or anything. We're just taking it a day at a time.

So far, here's what I've noticed:

I haven't lost interest in sugar--things still look good, especially if I've let myself get too hungry. But I haven't had any huge, undeniable cravings either. In fact, the change has been surprisingly easy.

I haven't lost any weight. Sigh. But that wasn't my reason for doing it. Still, I had hoped . . .

I haven't gained energy. This WAS one of my reasons. Probably I need to eliminate white things in order to get this benefit. Or give up my day off.

I HAVE gained in appreciation for the taste of healthy things. Most noticably: cucumbers. I never liked them before. Now they taste so good! And apples and kiwis are so amazingly sweet.

I've had no sypmtoms of withdrawal, as far as I can tell. (Now, if I had to give up Cafe Rio, this might be a different story.)

Little Drummer

I was brought to tears today listening to "The Little Drummer Boy" in very bad Christmas Eve traffic. This is all going to sound obvious because everyone knows what that song is really about, but I was so deeply touched to realize that Christ smiles at me, too, when I give my little awkward offering that is embarrassing to me because it seems so small compared to what others give.

I am a mediocre mother. There are many ways I could improve as a wife. I'm a bumbling friend and only passing-fair as a den leader. Even my writing skills (with which I've been trying to redeem my sense of worth?) are only moderate.

But I try. And I keep trying.

That little drummer probably felt embarrassed with such a strange gift compared to what others gave (OK, I know it's all a made-up story anyway—but as we know, we learn the greatest truths from fiction). But still Christ smiled.

My prayer this year is that I can feel Christ smiling at my offering, and that I can somehow radiate His smile to those I interact with.

And even though I've given it to you before, here is my Christmas poem for you, just because it says the same thing I've been trying to say here. Merry Christmas, my friends.

Shepherds
by Darlene Young

Don’t tell me about rose-cheeked Arcadian youth
gathering daisies on a hillside
piping tunes to their cloud-fluffy sheep
under the stars.

No, these were foul-smelling, lusty
men with dirty necks, greasy hands,
snorting, arguing, joke-telling, nose-picking
men—one wearing stolen
sandals (although I admit he felt
guilty about it)—gambling on who
had the best aim as they chucked rocks
at a nearby lizard.

You talk about salt of the earth—
these men were salty, alright
downright ornery, some of them,
fighting sometimes and yelling
at their wives when they were home,
which wasn’t often.

Yeah, I’ll grant you Dan
was an innocent
and Dave had some noble moments
and none of them was really evil
but they all had dirty fingernails
of one kind or another
when the light came—
yes, it came.

But don’t take away that moment just before—
flies whining over the sheep dung
and Jake and Zeke having a
spitting contest—
that’s the key moment, you see,
in all their grimy glory;
it has to be

because the light came to me too,
Alleluia.