Chefdruck Writes

Testimony by Anita Shreve - A Book Review

2009-06-28T20:58:00.000-07:00

Anita Shreve's latest novel, Testimony, takes place at an elite boarding school in New England. It takes up one of Shreve's favorite plot devices: the disastrous results of a bad decision. In this case, the plot centers around the after-effects of a filmed drunken orgy involving a freshman girl and 3 senior basketball players.

The novel is told in a kaleidoscope of voices, all characters affected in some way by the ensuing scandal. This narrative method is particularly effective at demonstrating the destructive ripple effect of four people's actions on the community. Shreve was effective in giving each character a very different voice and in laying out the story clearly with all the different points of view.

Shreve took on a very complex project with Testimony, and delivered another signature gripping read. Testimony was at once shocking, terrifying, and beautifully written. Each character really came to life, whether it was the vacuous freshman girl at the heart of the scandal or the devastated mother of one of the perpetrators.

According to the interview at the end of the book, Shreve initially planned on delivering the entire story from the viewpoint of the headmaster but shifted to the different voices when she realized that he was missing key points of information. Ironically, his character was the one whose motives and emotions were least clear to me.

I thoroughly enjoyed Testimony. This is one Anita Shreve novel you do not want to miss.

The Lost Prompt

2009-05-18T07:46:00.000-07:00

I'm watching the Lost finale and I just heard a great line. As soon as I heard it I realized it is also a great prompt.

"What's done is done."

What does that phrase spark in your writing? Two pages. Go.

Mothers in Law Writing Prompt

2009-05-15T07:05:00.000-07:00

Another writing prompt.

What about that other mother in your life? Your mother in law. Is she a monster? A peach? Give me 10 minutes on your MIL.

The Spidery Places

2009-05-13T07:02:00.000-07:00

I've been consumed with Ayelet Waldman's newest book, Bad Mother, all weekend.

Her words have inspired this prompt:
“Turn over a rock and explore the spidery places beneath.” Give me a bad mothering moment, a moment you’re not proud of, a moment you felt like a monster. You won’t read it aloud, but trust me, after writing it down, you won’t feel as ashamed.

Beginning Today, Writing Prompts

2009-05-11T18:58:00.000-07:00

I'm ashamed to admit that I haven't posted to Chefdruck Writes since February. The weeks go by too quickly and although I'm writing all the time, on my blog, in my notebook, and to the myriad of other sites I contribute to, I've neglected this blog.

Starting today, I'm going to post some writing prompts here. Prompts I'm using in my notebook. Prompts that have gotten my juices flowing. I hope they will get yours going too.

In honor of mother's day:

"Tell me about a time you felt like a good mother."

In the words of the greatest writing instructor, Natalie Goldberg, "Go. 10 minutes."

Irreplaceable, a Novel by Stephen Lovely

2009-02-26T20:29:00.000-08:00

Have you signed the organ donor form on the back of your license? I couldn't even tell you if I have or not. I've thought about it many times, but shy away from taking that step when I envision scalpels cutting into my comatose body while my family cries at my bedside. After I write this review, I'm going to go make sure I signed the form because I believe that my useless organs should go to help someone who needs them. But thinking about such a scenario is so hard that I've most likely avoided committing to it until now.

Reading Irreplaceable has spurred me to act. Stephen Lovely's novel, Irreplaceable, takes the reader deep into the aftermath of organ donation. The novel opens with a young woman enjoying a vigorous bike ride, looking forward to getting home to her husband. She never makes it home as she is run over by an SUV at the crest of a hill. Although she was only in the book for a few pages, her vitality as she pumps the pedals of the bike remained with me until the last page.

The rest of the novel follows the lives of everyone the accident touched: Isabel's husband, her mother, but also the family of the woman who received Isabel's heart. Nothing is black and white in Irreplaceable. The grief of Isabel's relatives is counter-balanced by the desperation of Janet's death-sentence if she did not receive that heart.

The situation is so tragic that it is sometimes difficult to keep on reading Irreplaceable. This is a book that really made me think and appreciate my good health. I'm very glad I read it.

Kelly Corrigan, Great Writer, Inspirational Speaker

2009-02-20T20:08:00.000-08:00

Tonight I attended an incredibly inspirational event with Kelly Corrigan, author of the Middle Place. I read and reviewed the Middle Place a year ago, before it was so popular, before it was on the NY Times non-fiction bestseller list. I loved the Middle Place. Although the topic sounds grim, a memoir where both the author and her father are battling cancer, the book is actually full of hope and life.

Kelly Corrigan in person is just like she writes. Honest, down to earth, funny and incredibly likeable. She read two chapters from the Middle Place and it made me want to run home and read it all over again. Although I remembered how moved I was by it, I had forgotten how incredibly well written I found it, and how amazing Corrigan is at painting the details.

What I most enjoyed about tonight was hearing about Corrigan's process and how the Middle Place came to be. When she was diagnosed, she started writing essays about her cancer. She shared them online at Circus of Cancer and was encouraged by the response. Her sister in law really pushed her to turn them into a book. Corrigan never thought it would be published, and certainly never imagined that it would reach the NY Times Bestseller list.

I walked up to her after her speech and asked her how she is able to write so honestly, how is she able to put aside her fear of offending people. She answered that the only reason she was able to do it for the first book was that she never thought it would be published and that she's now really struggling with that fear with her second book. She added, "that's why I don't feel like a real writer."

I was amazed that someone who writes so incredibly beautifully, someone whose book has become so popular on its own merit, from word of mouth, can still so clearly be plagued with self-doubt. Her honesty made made me realize that success is within all our grasps, and that even when we're at the top of our game, we'll still feel very vulnerable.

The trick is to start writing, and keep writing. Who knows where it could lead?

Who By Fire by Diana Spechler Book Review

2009-01-25T20:27:00.000-08:00

The novel Who By Fire by Diana Spechler is a beautifully told story of a broken family struggling to come to terms with a horrible tragedy from fifteen years earlier. The story is told in three voices: a mother and her grown son and daughter who are all dealing with the abduction of their other sister. Each deals with his or her guilt differently. Bits, the daughter, turned to casual sex at a young age to fill the void of her loss. Ash, the son, jumped into one extreme lifestyle after another until finally deciding to move to Israel to become an Orthodox Jew. Their mother, Ellie, spends her time faulting her children for not being Alanna, her kidnapped daughter.

Although Who By Fire sounds extremely depressing, it is actually a very human book, with a heart-warming message about the endurance of family bonds in the face of adversity. Each chapter is told from a different viewpoint, really giving a great sense of the three main characters and of how complicated love and family can be. I particularly enjoyed the Ash/Asher chapters as I learned so much about life in a yeshiva in Israel. I wasn't surprised to read, after I finished, how much work Spechler had put into researching Yeshiva life as it really showed.

I was completely hooked by Who by Fire from start to finish. I cared deeply about the well-crafted characters and read feverishly to discover whether Ash would remain in Israel and whether this family would heal. I recommend this book if you're interested in learning more about Hassidism and Orthodox Judaism but also if you enjoy books about family.

The Paradoxes of Caring by Joyce Hinnefeld

2009-01-08T21:23:00.000-08:00

I just reviewed In Hovering Flight by Joyce Hinnefeld over at Chefdruck Musings. Here is an essay she wrote, entitled Paradoxes of Caring, about her thoughts on the book.
*************************************************************************************

The Paradoxes of Caring

A brief piece in the November 21 issue of The Week describes my novel In Hovering Flight as, among other things, a consideration of “the paradoxes of caring.” The more I’ve thought about that phrase the more apt it’s come to seem to me.

Addie and Tom, two of the novel’s central characters, care passionately about birds and about the natural world, and also about the work they do in connection with this passion for the environment—Tom as an ornithologist, Addie as a bird artist and, eventually, an environmental activist. They also care deeply about their daughter Scarlet, the book’s other important character. For Tom, there’s a healthy balance and a meaningful connection between his various loves. But for Addie, the people and things she cares about often seem at war with one another. When Scarlet is a baby, Addie finds it nearly impossible to get to her blind in the woods and sketch, much less do any painting. When Scarlet is older and more independent, Addie’s despair over overdevelopment and environmental degradation often pulls her away from her work. Later, her own declining health interferes. So there’s one paradox of caring: for the mother in this book, the various people and things she cares about seem to interfere with this other important thing, her work as an artist.

When I began thinking about what I might say about motherhood and the writing of In Hovering Flight, I thought, initially, that I would write about that term “hovering” in the title. “In hovering flight” is actually a phrase from Roger Tory Peterson’s description of the song of the bobolink in the fifth edition of his Birds of Eastern and Central North America (“Song, in hovering flight and quivering descent, ecstatic and bubbling, starting with low, reedy notes and rollicking upward”); these are lines that Scarlet, who grows up to be a poet, uses when she tries to convince her father that words are necessary to capture the beauty of bird song. But these days the term “hovering” is being used in another context, to refer to the overly protective (and damaging) involvement of so-called “helicopter parents.” In a review in the November 17 New Yorker Joan Acocella discusses several recent books on “the rise of overparenting”—or, “hothouse parenting,” or “death-grip parenting,” or, in Acocella’s terms, “hovering parenting.”

Isn’t it ironic, I imagined writing as I reflected on motherhood and my novel, that that word “hovering” appears in the title of my novel, where I deliberately set out to portray two parents who are the antithesis of smothering, overprotective parents. As an adult, Scarlet sees the debt she owes her parents, who have taught her to love and value her work, however little the world might value it—an important lesson for a young woman who aspires to a life as a poet. She describes a childhood and early adolescence of warmth and freedom, “everything as safe and sure as Eden.” And when she is ready to leave the nest, she flies north, to Maine, with the confidence that, surely, only a child of hands-off, anti-hovering parents like Addie and Tom could possess.

But of course that’s only telling part of the story. Actually, Scarlet leaves home before she has finished school, choosing to spend her last year of high school at the home of her parents’ friend Cora—away from her mother’s despair over her work and over the planet’s decline, and also away from Addie’s increasingly public activism. And here I can see something else in what I was doing, in writing about Scarlet and Addie: I was exploring the possibility that a mother’s passion for her own work, or a mother’s own passions in general, might eventually alienate her from her own child.

My daughter Anna was three when I began working in earnest on In Hovering Flight. She was, in very real ways, my inspiration for the young Scarlet, and my memories of the elation, and also the profound exhaustion, that I felt during her first months were still vivid, and so shaped my writing about Addie’s first months with baby Scarlet. What I didn’t completely own up to in my initial thinking about this piece were the ways in which In Hovering Flight enacts my own personal paradox of caring: for my family (my daughter and husband, and now too my own aging parents), for my teaching, for my work as a writer. The effort to balance all of these is my struggle—and, I know, also my gift—every day. I hope for the ability to hold all of this together as gracefully as writer Scott Russell Sanders, who says in an interview published in the September 2008 Writer’s Chronicle

Like any writer, I struggle to preserve the mental space necessary for creative work. But I’m not willing to abandon the students and others who depend on me, I’m not willing to exploit my friends, and I’m not willing to sacrifice the people I love in order to produce a more nearly perfect book. So I go on struggling to make my imperfect art in the midst of relationships and responsibilities.

The Quakers say that work is love made visible. That’s what I wanted to give to all my characters: work that, for them, is their love, their deep caring—for life, for the planet, for one another—made visible. But I realize now that in having Addie struggle, and at certain points fail, in the effort to resolve the paradoxes of caring, I was being a bit more realistic. When you care that much, and for that many, it isn’t going to be easy—for you or for the ones you love.

Joyce Hinnefeld

Dough - A Book Review

2008-11-06T20:16:00.000-08:00

Dough is an entertaining memoir by Mort Zacher about coming to terms with your family's eccentricities. Zachter grew up poor in the shadow of his uncles' Lower East Side bakery. It's only as an adult, when he's settling his uncle's financial affairs before committing him to a hospice, that he discovers they were actually very rich.

Dough opens with a photo essay of the two uncles standing in the bakery, a picture where his mother is tell-talingly missing. The memoir alternates between chapters about the author's youth and adulthood. Zachter comes to terms with his bitterness about his impoverished childhood as the book progresses. He lived in a tiny apartment, sleeping on a banquette with his head touching the refrigerator. A buffet meal at a kosher cafeteria was a major affair for his family. He never understood his family's obsessive hoarding, even at his expense, their only offspring.

Because of the title, I expected Dough to be a food memoir, but I was surprised at how much I enjoyed it. I loved learning about life on the Lower East Side, but I also really enjoyed the author's reflections on family life and how expressively he wrote about the process of forgiving his uncles.

Book Review - the Nineteenth Wife by David Ebershoff

2008-09-13T13:07:00.000-07:00

When I heard about The 19th Wife by David Ebershoff, I was immediately desperate to get my hands on a copy. I love historical fiction and have a strange fascination with polygamy and other cults. As soon as it arrived, I sat down to read it cover to cover. It did not disappoint.

This novel weaves the stories of two women, both the 19th wives of polygamists, and paints a thorough and captivating portrait of plural marriage from its inception in the 1830s to its current existence with fringe groups. The first 19th wife is Ann Eliza Young, Brigham Young's wife who divorced him and campaigned tirelessly on the lecture circuit to educate America about polygamy. She was instrumental in convincing Congress to outlaw the practice and forcing the Mormons to renounce it. Ebershoff fictionalizes her story but also references diverse original sources to bring to life Brigham Young, Ann Eliza Young, her parents and siblings. The details about life on the frontier as well as the dialogue are authentic and intriguing.

The other 19th wife's story is radically different from Ann Eliza Young's, and reveals how far from grace plural marriage has fallen. It is really a murder mystery tale, told through the eyes of Jordan Scott, the wife's outcast gay son. He is researching the Mesadale Firsts community (fictional but inspired on communities such as the one led by Warren Jeffs) to free his mother from being unjustly convicted of killing his father. The contrast between the struggles of the Mormon pioneers with their hand-drawn cart journeys to Utah with the present-day Internet and IM technology used by the men of Mesadale to recruit new wives is striking. Regardless of the advances of technology, however, the hardships of plural marriage to the wives and children remain unchanged.

Ebershoff condemns the practice thoroughly, but he does a great job of showing the fears and beliefs that drive women to choose being a plural wife. The chapter when he describes Ann Eliza's parents' struggle with Joseph Smith's commandment to embrace polygamy is especially poignant. It is her mother who tearfully ends up forcing her husband to take on a second wife, in fear of not being with him in heaven. Once convinced, the husband fully embraced it, taking on multiple wives, and the ensuing strife destroyed their marriage.

Ann Eliza's character is a little murky, one of the hazards of using such a controversial historical figure. It is hard to believe that she is much of a victim after three failed marriages under her belt in her life. She is a good illustration of how high and low you could be in early Mormon culture as well as how much women were forced to rely on their own means to provide for themselves.

The modern sections of the novel do the best job of showing the true victims of "celestial marriage": the children. Jordan's descriptions of their home life really illustrates their plight: "We slept in triple-decker bunks; or five to a bed, head to foot; or on the couch, four boys elbowing over three cushions; or on the living room floor, on blankets and pillows, twenty kids laid down like tiles. Shirts and sweaters in plastic garbage bins labelled by size. Shoes handed down. Tennis balls and kickballs handed down from one kid to the next. The only thing in that house that was all my own, that I never had to share with anyone, was a drawer in my dresser, twelve inches wide by fifteen inches deep... If you're bad at math, that's 1.25 square feet, which was really more than I needed because I didn't have anything to keep inside."

The novel ends on a mixed note. The 1800s story concludes with the Latter Day Saints renouncing polygamy. The current day story concludes with Jordan's mother being freed after another killer confesses, but she elects to return to the compound. Her fear of hell is stronger than a desire to escape a harsh life as a cast-off widow. The Nineteenth Wife is a thought-provoking expose of polygamy's evolution in America and its presence today. It's particularly relevant considering all the recent news coverage, but it's also a wonderfully written and captivating novel.

Miracle

2008-09-07T18:46:00.000-07:00

Tonight's Sunday Scribblings prompt is Miracle. It inspired this little fiction tale...

It was going to take a miracle. Nothing short of a miracle would solve the unholy mess that she was in. Jane stared at the screen of her cellphone, wishing desperately that the words picture sent would magically disappear, but she knew that even if she pressed clear and made them disappear, it still wouldn't undo her mistake. Why did Verizon make it so easy to hit send?

She and Brandi had just been messing around, killing time during yet another boring Saturday afternoon in Wichita. They were both broke, having already burned through their monthly allowance: Jane on a killer studded jeans skirt and Brandi on a hot tattoo of cool looking Asian symbols.

They'd decided to go to the mall anyway, it was either that or hanging out in the parking lot at the Circle K. The busy mall was marginally less depressing, even when they couldn't do anything other than window shop. Brandi sometimes stole little things from stores, but Jane never got off on that like Brandi. The last time she'd stole a lip gloss from Rite Aid, she'd felt so guilty about it that she'd actually gone back the next day to put it back. The clerk had stared at her the whole time and she'd almost gotten caught, proof of what a total loser she was, probably the only idiot in the world to get caught returning stolen loot.

They'd ended up in Victoria's Secret, laughing at the skanky lace lingerie displayed in the candy pink store. A snooty saleslady, trying to scare them off, had asked them if they needed any help. Jane had bit her tongue hard to keep from laughing out loud when Brandi had looked her straight in the eyes and asked for her help to pick out something special for the two of them for their wedding night. That snooty lady looked so disgusted but the potential of a commission was too sweet to give in to her homophobic fears.

Jane wasn't too homophobic herself, but she definitely wasn't a lesbian, still she enjoyed a good prank so she went along with Brandi's joke. Next thing she knew, they were naked in a dressing room, putting on matching pink see-through camisoles and posing for the camera. They were laughing so hard that tears were streaming down their faces. It was amazing that they'd been able to even take the picture, but they unfortunately had. Then they took a whole bunch more, pretending to be lesbian lovers. They sat on the floor, among all the discarded outfits, with the frigid and annoyed saleslady right outside the door and reviewed their photoshoot. It was during their next laugh attack that she had hit clicked "yes" to the send to all command.

Now she was going to have a lot of explaining to do at Thanksgiving sitting around the table with her grandmother and her aunts. She would never be able to look her cousins in the face again after they saw that picture. She prayed that no one would be cruel enough to put it out on the Internet or she might actually have to become a lesbian because no guy would ever date her again.

A Losing Proposition

2008-08-08T13:20:00.000-07:00

Gary and I were sitting in his sister's car, AC blasting to ward off the DC September heat, sharing a Dean and Delucca prociutto sandwich when he turned to me with a conspirational smile. I smiled back, already excited to join him on whatever off the wall adventure he was about to suggest.
"Dude, I have the best idea!"
"Great! What is it?"
"Well, you know how neither one of us has a girlfriend or a boyfriend right now?"
"Don't remind me - I'm trying hard to forget it..."
At that point, my heart was beginning to beat a little faster. I'd never really thought of Gary in that way, he'd always been a really fun buddy who was always game for a party. But he was decent looking and I was crazy lonely. I was beginning to wonder if today was going to be the first day of a glorious relationship - one that could lead to marriage and kids one day.
"So dude, I was thinking that maybe we should hook up, you know, while we don't have anyone else."
"Are you for real! You mean, just hook up, no relationship, no commitment, just until something better comes along?"

Gary turned to me, still smiling, still proud of his stroke of inspiration.

"Yeah, so what do you think?"
"What do I think? I think you're an a**hole, that's what! Take me home, I'm done hanging out."
"What? You don't think it's a good idea? I thought you had nothing to do all afternoon? Why do you want to go home?"
"Just take me home."
"Are you pissed?"
"..."
"Why aren't you talking? Are you mad at me? What did I say? Why are you mad?"
"Look - I'm not mad - just take me home."
"But, I thought we were going to go to the music store?"
"Just take me home ... NOW."

And that day marked the end of a beautiful friendship.

The Fiction Friday prompt for today was: Write about a failed proposal.

The Beach House Review

2008-08-05T20:08:00.001-07:00

Jane Green's latest novel brings together a diverse cast of characters in a big old house in Nantucket. The owner of the house, Nan, is an eccentric old widow who likes to swim nude in strangers' pools during the off-season. In oder to keep the house when her money runs out, she decides to take in boarders thus bringing together Daff, the lonely divorcee, Daniel, the confused recently separated husband, and Michael, a jeweler from Manhattan. The bulk of the story takes place on Nantucket's gorgeous relaxed summer scene.

With the exception of Michael Crichton, I'm not usually a fan of popular fiction. I'll occasionally pick up a James Patterson or a Mary Higgins Clark for the pleasure of a gripping plot to read on the plane, but I often get frustrated by the writing. Jane Green's novel was no exception, but when I persevered, I got hooked by the plot. Once I stopped looking for great sentences to keep in my writing notebook, I started turning to the Beach House like a guilty pleasure, the same way I watch Gossip Girl on tv.

I then feverishly burned through the rest of the book, eager to see whether Nan would manage to hang on to the house, if Daniel would find happiness, and if Daff would stop being lonely. I stayed up until 1AM last night when I finally finished it.

I give it two stars because although I enjoyed it, it's really not my kind of book, but that doesn't mean The Beach Housemight not be your ideal beach pick.

I'm giving away a copy of the Beach House at Chefdruck Musings. Click over to enter to win!

Tutu Monstrosity

2008-08-01T19:31:00.000-07:00

Jane sat on the hard slatted bench, fidgeting nervously with her shirt buttons. The bench was digging into her legs, undoubtedly making unflattering red marks that would soon be visible to the other moms when she stood up. She looked around, glancing at the wall clock, wondering how much longer she was going to have to wait. She was just thinking that she'd never noticed how grating the peptobismo-pink walls of the dance studio were, when Miss Patti opened the door with a flourish. She beckoned the mothers in with a smile meant to be dazzling but that came off as forced.

Jane quickly removed her pumps and stepped into the brightly list studio. She smiled at Lindsey. Her baby looked so adorable in her black tutu with pink tights - she was the exact image Jane had pictured during pregnancy when she'd dreamed of having a daughter. Jane congratulated herself for having done such a good job with her hair today - not a strand was out of place in the pink chignon pocket. All the little ballerinas looked beautiful, but Lindsey was clearly a cut above the rest as she beamed back at her mother with a broad smile. Even though she was only four, it was already clear that she had a dancer's lean build.

Jane tore her eyes away from her daughter, and turned her attention back to Miss Patti who was addressing the moms from the front of the room. Jane couldn't help but reluctantly admire the woman's toned body as it reflected on all sides in the mirrors around the room. She had to be at least sixty, and her butt and thighs were carved like marble. The definition in her black-spandex clad buttocks became even clearer as Miss Patti bent over to pull out of a cardboard box a sample costume the girls would be wearing at their recital.

It was hard to tell because it was still wrapped in plastic, but it did not seem to be pink. Jane felt a twinge of disappointment which quickly turned to fury when Miss Patti proudly held up a leopard-skin monstrosity. She started gushing about how much fun the costume would be and how well suited it would be to their tap number, but Jane had trouble hearing her over the roar in her ears. There were also a couple of girls crying. The rigid smile on Miss Patti's face grew even tighter as she interrupted her speech to address the growing anarchy. "Now now girls, you are going to be the hit of the recital! You will be wild! This is nothing to cry about. This costume is much more fun than a boring old pink outfit."

Jane swallowed hard, trying to control the tears she could feel brimming on her eyelids. She couldn't cry in front of Lindsey, who was actually oblivious to the commotion, chatting with a little friend. Jane had to have a good attitude, but she felt so powerless to help her daughter. With just a few weeks to go before the recital, it was too late to order more costumes and she couldn't deprive Lindsey of the chance to perform.

She glared at Miss Patti, wondering what on earth had possessed her to pick such a hideous outfit. At that moment, Miss Patti met her eye and her smile faded for a moment as she winked coldly at her. Jane suddenly realized that she was the one to blame. It seemed like her blog wasn't as anonymous as she'd thought after all. Miss Patti must have read her post poking fun at her the other day. She must not have found it funny.

Today's Fiction Friday Prompt: Write about a leopard print dress.

Night is my Playground

2008-07-19T14:30:00.000-07:00

Photo courtesy of Photo Bucket - Rema XO.
I'm a little late with my Fiction Friday post. The prompt this week was: Pick a character who loves the dark, and tell us why. Avoid the obvious choices: stealth, monsters, sex, and anything else you immediately thought of.

At night, I am finally safe; safe from the harmful rays of the sun. I wait, hiding behind my blackout curtains, until I see the neighbor's lights wink at me as they blink on one by one, beckoning me out. The twilight of sunset is pure torture for me, as even the sun's weakening rays could cause me irreperable harm, blistering my skin within minutes. I've succumbed to the temptation a few times, desperate to see some natural colors, but have the scars as memories.

When night finally falls, like a comforting blanket, I flee from the home that is my daytime tomb. I walk miles and miles every night, hungry for the stimulation of real sights and sounds, not filtered through the tv screen. If I feel the need for real distance, I'll even ride my bike and cover thirty or forty miles. I can't drive a car as I was not able to take the test at night. Even if I were licensed, I don't think I would chance getting behind the wheel. There are just too many fluorescent lights on the highway, at rest stops and in the toll plazas.

Although the night is my prison, I don't hate it or resent it. Night is my time. Night is my domain. It's the only time when I can pretend to be normal for a few hours. In the darkness I can't see the scars on my hands or the pity in other's eyes as they look at my freakish face.

At some point, every night I make my way to the train tracks, my chosen spot, my favorite spot. I have a little flashlight to guide my steps through the field. Next summer, in early August, when the field is still full of lavender, I'll make my way to the railroad tracks for the last time. I like to imagine that my last sensations will be of the warmth of a summer night coupled with the delicate aroma of flowers. Then the blackness of night will wrap around me forever.

Free Food for Millionaires Review

2008-07-14T19:13:00.000-07:00

Free Food for Millionaires is a sprawling novel depicting the life of Casey Han, a first generation Korean immigrant who navigates the choppy waters of the New York investment banking world. Casey is the oldest daughter of Joseph and Leah, whose lives are split between running a large dry cleaner in midtown Manhattan and participating actively in their Catholic church. Through her hard work and good grades, Casey earns a fully-paid scholarship to Princeton, but she struggles to find her identity amongst all the old money. That struggle carries on after graduation as she begins her career.

I would have loved Free Food for Millionaires, if it had ended around the middle, around page 300. I'm a quick read, and I don't mind a hefty book, but it has to be worth my time. This novel started out with a gripping plot and well-drawn characters, even with the author's confusing point of view shifts. But the author did not know when to stop. She drew out the story by devoting chapters to minor characters such as Casey's mom Leah and Casey's friend Ella.

When I finally reached the end, it was anti-climactic, one of those endings, without giving too much away, that just peter out mid-scene, vaguely hinting at what the future might hold. It seemed that, after watching Casey struggle to make money and have a successful career for close to 600 pages, the author wanted us to conclude that she did not belong in that world and did not deserve love.

I was disappointed by Free Food for Millionaires. I loved getting a a glimpse of the investment banking world and of New York Korean culture. I enjoyed being reminded of the how hard it was to forge my own identity after college. But I wish the story had been tighter, more concise, and ended sooner.

You can also read my review at Dear Reader, and see other responses to it.

Luck Turns...

2008-07-11T10:13:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago on Fiction Friday, we wrote about a very unlucky character. Today's challenge is to have his or her luck turn around. It was so painful to write about this poor guy the last time, this should be a piece of cake!

Once the doors of the ambulance closed, it took me a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting inside the truck. Then I noticed the paramedic who was busy working on my legs. She was so beautiful that I got scared I had died and gone to heaven and was in the presence of an angel. I didn't want to speak in case she disappeared, but she broke the spell by looking up at me with a warm smile. "I hope I'm not hurting you too much," she said. It seemed like she was speaking to me, but girls like that don't generally speak to guys like me. I craned my head around to see the lucky guy she was addressing, but the shooting pains throughout my body made me collapse back down on the gurney. I shut my eyes, overwhelmed by the pain. I felt a cool touch on my wrist and opened my eyes. She was bent over me and I could feel her sweet breath on my face. Her face was even lovely with a frown of concern. When she saw that I hadn't fainted, she smiled. "Don't worry, you're in good hands. I'm going to make sure you get better really soon." I'm not sure if it was the pain, or my unusual good fortune, but everything went black, and I fainted.

Six days later, I was able to return home. I still wasn't convinced that Joyce was a mortal human, as she truly seemed to be sent from God as a reward for being a decent guy, but I didn't want to jinx my luck by thinking about it too much. True to her word, she hadn't left my side for the entire time I was in the hospital. She'd made sure I was comfortable, that my casts were set well, and that I had my favorite foods. She had even fed me with her own hands so that I wouldn't tire myself out! And now she was wheeling me back to my apartment. Robert had come to visit from work, ostensibly to pay his condolences, but I could tell that it was to make sure I wasn't faking it. Once he'd seen Joyce, his entire attitude had changed. He couldn't believe that such a hot girl was taking care of me.

When we walked into the building, Fat Norma was in the hallway. When she saw me, ambling along with my cane and my casts, she started racing to the elevator to pull her usual shut the door in my face stint. Joyce sized up the situation immediately and briskly walked to the elevator to claim it. She smiled tersely at Norma, and said, "I'm sure we can all fit in here nicely." Norma had no retort and was forced to wait a few minutes for me to make my way to the elevator. When we got to my floor, Joyce escorted me out. When she had her back turned, I looked back at Norma and winked. I wasn't sure when my luck would run out, but it felt good to be a winner for a change!

Naughty

2008-07-08T09:33:00.000-07:00

My writing group has gone online this summer as everyone travels to their various summer destinations. We're sharing weekly writing prompts in order to stay connected and keep writing...

Last week's writing prompt was Naughty.

Brenda sighed. She was going to have to fire the new nanny. That meant another search, another unpleasant confrontation, and more downtime with no coverage and no one to help out with Tyler and Rex. She felt her breath quicken and her heart race with anxiety just thinking about it. How on earth would she keep them busy? Maybe she could find some sort of military boot camp for little boys to drain them of all that destructive energy. She made a mental note to google that, along with miracle nannies and discipline experts.

When Brenda had hired Mathilda, she'd thought that all her problems were answered. Mathilda was an attractive petite brunette with a functional yet flattering bob. She had been polite and articulate during the interviews as she explained her discipline strategy to Brenda. The words punishment room and spanking rod in Mathilda's elegant British accent were like a beautiful melody in Brenda's ears. If the boys did not succumb to Mathilda's female charms, they would be vanquished by her iron-clad child management technique. Brenda had hired her on the spot, and had only needed one Ambien a night to get her beauty sleep in the weeks before her arrival.

The first few days with Mathilda at the helm had proceeded splendidly. The boys had been so charmed by her that they had become little angels. Brenda hadn't felt her usual need to escape the house. She'd been able to host an impromptu luncheon for the Junior Women's Club steering committee that had gone off without a hitch. Life with Mathilda was going to be wonderful.

Exactly one week after Mathilda arrived, Brenda was woken in the middle of the night out of a delicious non-Ambien natural slumber by a loud thump. It seemed to be coming from the nanny's room. She ran through the house's dark halls and threw open Mathilda's door. Brenda turned on the light and was confronted by a pitiful sight: a red-faced snot-nosed Mathilda sobbing in a heap on the floor. Her perfect coiffe had been transformed into a stringy wet mop sticking to the sides of her face. It took Brenda a few minutes to piece together what Mathilda was repeating over and over again through her hot tears. "Naughty boys! Naughty boys! I've never seen such naughty boys." Brenda suddenly heard muffled giggling from the closet and she sighed, understanding that her short-lived peace was over.

Once Mathilda calmed down enough to give Brenda the details, she'd been filled by a perverse pride for the lethalness of the boys' attack. While they had pretended to be so well-behaved, they had really been on a reconnaissance mission, quietly observing the enemy before electing a battle plan. The attack began on Monday morning at 4:47 AM with a ferocious water balloon attack on Mathilda's sleeping form. It was over as quickly as it began, and Mathilda would have been convinced that she had dreamt it, if she wasn't soaked from head to toe. She'd started walking to the bathroom to change into dry pajamas but she'd slipped on a strategically placed minefield of marbles and landed hard on her side. The thump had shaken the house and woken Brenda.

The termination discussion wasn't difficult as some others had been, as Mathilda was eager to escape the twins. Brenda, Rex and Tyler watched her walking out with her two suitcases, her functional high heels wobbling on the cobblestone street. Rex leaned into Brenda and gave her a little hug before asking, "Was that the last one Mommy? Now will you be our nanny?"

Intaglio

2008-06-20T19:04:00.000-07:00

This week's Fiction Friday prompt is: Without it up, use the word Intaglio in your fiction friday entry.

The doorbell rings. I peek out of my window, hoping to see the big brown UPS truck I've been waiting for the last few days. I jump up in joy when I spy the bare white legs under the tell-tale brown shorts of the driver walking briskly away. I wonder if he has a choice of shorts or pants and actually chooses the ridiculous shorts. I push that random thought out of my head to run down and get the treasure my little short-clad elf has left me.

My Intaglio is finally here. I had ordered it the first day it was available to the American market. All the articles about it, first in the Italian press, then in the American press raved about it. I couldn't wait to see it, hold it, touch it. I couldn't believe that it was mine.

My friends told me that I was crazy to spend so much money on an Italian gadget. They tried to get me to change my mind, to use the money to go on an exotic vacation, but I could not be swayed. I knew the Intaglio would change my life.

The package was satisfyingly large, but it was devoid of any flashy branding, except for its unusual midnight black color. I bent down to pick it up and had to kneel down as it was heavier than I imagined. I carried it into the house, grunting with effort, but being extremely careful not to drop my $5000 loot. I was going to be eating a lot of plain pasta dinners to help my budget recover; I didn't want to break it before it had a chance to revolutionize my life.

I grabbed the scissors from the drawer and sliced open the box. I slowly slid the shiny black machine out of its styrofoam prison and placed it triumphantly on my counter. My decrepit little kitchen was transformed by the magnificent Intaglio.

I plugged it in and grabbed the porcelain espresso cup I'd purchased just for this occasion. I easily found the drawer for the coffee beans, poured in the water, and pressed the espresso button. The Intaglio came to life with thrilling hissing noises. The gleaming computer screen next to the espresso icon flickered, and turned on, revealing the face of a gorgeous Italian man. He was my Intaglio match of the day. He flashed me a dazzling smile and his "bonjourno bella!" was crystal clear on the state of the art speakers.

My Review of Rockabye by Rebecca Woolf

2008-06-17T13:35:00.000-07:00

Here's my review of Rockabye. I also posted this at the Dear Reader book review blog.

Rockabye: From Wild to Child, the memoir of the first two years of motherhood of party girl turned mother Rebecca Woolf is filled with pearls of wisdom. It reads like the blogs it was likely crafted from, but it flows well.
I found it particularly inspiring at the end when Woolf encourages all mothers to not use being a mother as an excuse to stifle their passions. ”Bringing a child into the world shouldn’t mean locking ourselves out of our own. Nothing will be lost on those who explore their passions limitlessly.” She exhorts all mothers to make room for their own happiness, “Happiness is the most underrated accessory to success. It is paramount to be inspired by life in order to be an inspiration to a child.” Woolf inspires without being preachy.
Woolf also does a great job of capturing a mother’s angst in finding mommy friends to bond with as well as describing her struggles with coming to terms with her son Archer’s special needs. She resents needing the help of “ists” to help him learn how to speak. She also describes some beautiful moments playing with her son. Her love for him and their special bond are palpable, a real celebration of the connection between mother and child.
Rockabye is more than a mommy memoir though. It is a also a chronicle of her developing relationship with the father of her child. She honestly and fearlessly describes their marriage as it morphs from a budding romance to sharing the burden of parenthood together.
Rockabye is a brutally honest tale that left me inspired to continue capturing my own parenting and marital experiences. I loved it, devoured it, and filled pages of my notebooks with its quotes. I give it five stars.

Sometimes It's Best to Stay in Bed

2008-06-13T19:11:00.000-07:00

I knew I had overslept as soon as I saw how bright it was outside. I looked over at my alarm to understand why it didn't ring.
Turns out the stupid cat knocked over my water glass, again. Must be some sort of passive aggressive way of telling me to sleep less. Maybe some more therapy sessions would help. But no time to think of that, I had to focus on getting to work to avoid being fired. Thanks to the frigging cat, this would be the fifth time this month that I walked in after 9:30. Robert would not be pleased, again.

I raced out of the apartment, and yelled at Fat Norma to hold the elevator. She actually flipped me the bird and smiled evilly before the doors closed in my face. I realized that my shoelace, which I had forgotten to tie in my rush to get out the door, had made it in the elevator. I felt a strong tug on my right foot before it snapped off - breaking my new $200 Johnson and Murphy loafers.

I decided that I could not take the time to wait for the elevator, and took my chances with the stairs. It was only 15 flights, not too bad. I didn't see the banana peel until it was too late. Due to my speed, I basically took flight over the 12 steps until the next landing. I landed, hard, and could not get up. Everything hurt, my back, my legs, my arms... I was shot.

As the ambulance pulled away, I hoped that I would at least have a cast to show Robert the next time I made it in to work. Perhaps that would save my job.

This post was inspired by the Fiction Friday prompt: Sketch out a character with wildly bad luck. Make it a character you like, as we will use her again.

Blog Catalog

2008-06-11T20:51:00.001-07:00

I just signed up for blog catalog. It's a great way to get more exposure for your blog and discover new blogs too.

Check it out.

Obsession

2008-06-06T09:30:00.000-07:00

James couldn't picture the color of his wife's eyes anymore. He couldn't remember the last time he'd really looked into her eyes. Lately her eyes were fixated on one thing - the giant IMac screen in their kitchen. With its bluish glow reflected in her brown eyes, it seemed as though her eyes had morphed into a new color, like those people who get colored lenses and create unnatural looking eye color combinations.

James rued the day he'd walked into the Apple store. He'd been easily seduced by the flawless design of the IMac. He had never thought that he would describe a computer as beautiful, but there simply was no other way to describe it, and the price couldn't be beat. He never would have bought it, even if it had only cost a dollar, if he'd known it would cost him his wife.

The IMac was, as advertised, truly plug and play. It was up and running as soon as he connected the power cord. They had all gathered, drawn in by the stunning purple space screensaver. One by one, the kids had drifted off to their games, and eventually James had gotten up to go to the bathroom. Brenda had just settled in on her stool and had never left. A little while later, when he'd gotten involved with his bathroom private time, Brenda had called out to him, all excited about how clear the ebay fonts were on the new monitor. He hadn't her sound that excited in a long time, and it worried him.

Now she was up late every night, monitoring her many auctions. She bought everything on ebay now: clothing, toys, furniture, even collectibles. They'd never been collectibles people - they used to call those people freaks - and they now were the proud owners of a growing collection of creepy bobble head figurines.

Brenda, who had always prided herself on being a supermom, barely noticed the kids. She only bathed them when they complained of being itchy or in pain. She threw in frozen waffles for breakfast and frozen chicken nuggets for lunch and dinner. She forgot to brush their hair and sign their permission slips. Although Brenda was still living with them, still physically his wife and their mother, she had mentally checked out of their lives.

James had tried speaking to her - at first nicely, then angrily, and finally with utter desperation. Nothing got through to her. She reacted with the least amount of word possible, and turned back to her screen. Now he was out of options, he opened the door to the highest bidder and helped him carry the IMac out to his car. James would miss having a computer, but he missed Brenda more.

Conspinkey

2008-05-23T18:19:00.000-07:00

get the Fiction Friday code


This Week’s Theme: Conspinkey. Don't look that word up, because it doesn't exist. But you're going to use it in your entry. I walked into the Iron Arms and was momentarily blinded as my eyes adjusted to the gloomy smoky bar. I scanned the room as nonchalantly as I could. Then I saw him. I almost missed him; he blended in so well with the other guys at the bar, but the beat-up stetson on his lap set him apart. I walked over to the bar and stopped behind his chair. I coughed the word discreetly into my hand, "Conspinkey." He casually said, "God Bless you. Or is it more PC to say gazundheit nowadays?" I smiled, relieved that I had picked the correct man and that my instinct had been dead on. "Either one is fine with me, thank you. It got chilly early this year, don't you think?" He nodded and replied, "Can I buy you a hot toddy to warm you up?" His innocuous words chilled me to the bone. I squeaked out my answer, "No thanks. Warm drinks don't sit well with me," and I walked out as quickly as I could without calling attention to myself. I needed to make my way to a private contact point as quickly as I could; there wasn't much time to warn headquarters. I'd been prepared for a shirley temple or even a pint of guinness at the worst, but a hot toddy was the worst possible scenario. There was nothing left to do other than getting as far out of the city as possible. This time tomorrow there would be nothing left.
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