Constance Reader's Guide to Throwing Books with Great Force

When poets write novels

2012-01-27T20:54:00.001-08:00

Philip Larkin is one of my favorite poets, but up until I came across A Girl in Winter on the shelf at my local thrift store/bargain book extravaganza, I hadn't known he was also a novelist. I know that some poets write books and some novelists write poems, but I am apt to look at this cross-writing endeavor kind of skeptically. I've taken enough creative writing classes to know that writing poems and writing fiction are two different things, and being awesome at one does not necessarily mean you will be awesome at the other. And I like things neatly compartmentalized--I was the kind of kid that didn't let her food touch--so this kind of genre-hopping is something I tend to shy away from.

But like I said, I love Larkin. And I tend to think that Larkin's brilliance as a poet comes from the way he manages to jam-pack so much feeling into the pithy, rigid forms of his poems, and so I was interested to see what he would do with a whole book's worth of words. A Girl in Winter, his second novel, was written in 1947, at the beginning of his career, when Larkin hadn't really established himself one way or the other as a novelist or poet. Which I think makes the book extra interesting, in that he could have gone either way. At the point of writing it, he was still standing at the crossroads.

The story is of a young German expat living in England during the Second World War. Katherine Lind works at a glum job in a library. It isn't her first time in England; six years before, she was a guest of the Fennels, the family of her pen-pal, Robin. Robin and Katherine fell out of touch after that visit, and now Katherine is planning to meet him again before he ships out with the army. Will they reconnect? Or will the coldness that sprung up between them over the years have subsumed their old friendship?

It's a quiet little novel. There are no big plot hits. The characters are real and complicated, even if they aren't great personalities that you'll remember. But A Girl in Winter is valuable in that it does provide an interesting window into themes Larkin would explore later in his career as a poet. That strange mix of cynicism and naivete, the way he refuses to be moved by sentimentality and cliche. His post-war poems provide a realistic, untempered look at the failings of modern society, the dying sense of empire and the idea of being British. A Girl in Winter is similar, in that Larkin refuses to buy into the stiff-upper-lippedness that permeates so much fiction about the war years. He focuses on the ugly scar left behind by the ripped-up streetcar tracks with nary a word about how they've found new life as scrap for the war effort. His characters struggle with cold and boredom and fear and deprivation that comes from war. It's a realistic view, often grim, sometimes unpleasant, but it's so much more illuminating because of these things.

After writing A Girl in Winter, Larkin made the jump to writing poetry, and never went back. And that's the most curious part, to me. Because the fact that he never wrote another novel would insinuate that Girl isn't a very good book or that it wasn't very well-received. But actually, I found it beautifully written, and reviews indicate that though it might not have been fully recognized at the time, it has at least earned its fair share of accolades over the years. The New Yorker called it "one of the best embodiments of pre-Second World War manners and turns of speech." The New York Review of Books writes that with this novel, Larkin proves that "his novelistic gifts are as impressive as his abilities as a poet." And while I don't find that exactly true, in my opinion, I did think it was good enough that I find myself wondering why A Girl in Winter was Larkin's last novel. Did he find it too hard, to fill 300+ pages instead of three stanzas? Or could he have found it too easy, the simple act of dumping dialogue and description into pages upon pages. Did he miss the honing and sculpting and the sly little cleverness that poems require? I'd like to know more. I wish I could know more. Because I keep wondering: why?

I want to read his first novel, Jill, now to try and find out. I also want to read more novels by poets. Any recommendations?

January 26, 2012

2012-01-25T20:43:00.000-08:00

Dear Lulu,

Yesterday, you learned to crawl.

You'd been working on it for about a month, scooting around and rolling wherever you needed to go. It wasn't crawling exactly--we'd set you on the floor somewhere and look up a few minutes later, and you'd be inexplicably across the room. For a while you worked on a move where you dragged yourself around on your forearms, like a baby commando in the field in 'Nam.

But this is definitive crawling. You're up on all fours, with one of your little legs tucked foot-flat on the ground at all times.

You're fast. And you have this thing for electrical cords. And destruction. We had to break out the baby jail to keep you from doing harm to yourself and our knickknacks. You hate it and cry passionately the whole time you're incarcerated...until dad or I climb in with you. Yesterday, I checked myself in and you crawled over and bit my nose and laughed. Biting noses is like the world's best joke for you. It's all the lolcats and Hyperbole and a Half cartoons rolled up into one gigantic good time.

I miss the days of being able to sit on the couch and turn my attention to the internets for TEN FREAKING MINUTES without having to worry about you crawling away to your doom. But I have to admit that there's something very cool about the fact that you can go places, now. If we lived in caveman times, you could at least make a pretense of escaping from the lions before they devoured you! I keep thinking about all the places you'll go in your life. Right now, I'm reading a book about Bhutan. Maybe you'll go there, one day. I hope you do.

Many of these places you'll go, you'll go without me.

But I was there the first time you ever set your eyes on something and then decided to go and get it for yourself. I was there at the very beginning. And that makes me feel like I'll be with you every step of the way, even when I'm not.

The cats want me to give you a message from them. It is OMG WTF HALP!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wherever you go, little girl, I've got your back.

Lots of love to my Lulu-pants,

MAMA

Waiting on Wednesday: The Hypnotist's Love Story

2012-01-25T07:59:00.000-08:00

“Waiting On” Wednesday is a weekly event, hosted here, that spotlights upcoming releases that we're eagerly anticipating. This week's pre-publication “can't-wait-to-read” selection is:

Ellen O’Farrell is an expert when it comes to human frailties. She’s a hypnotherapist who helps her clients deal with everything from addictions to life-long phobias. So when she falls in love with a man who is being stalked by his ex-girlfriend she’s more intrigued than frightened. What makes a supposedly smart, professional woman behave this way? She’d love to meet her! What she doesn’t know is that she already has. Saskia has been masquerading as a client, and their lives are set to collide in ways Ellen could never have predicted. This wonderfully perceptive new novel from Liane Moriarty is about the lines we’ll cross for love. It’s about the murky areas between right and wrong, and the complexities of modern relationships. As Ellen is about to discover, we’re all a little crazy – even her.

I love Liane Moriarty--I just devoured all of her previous books. A year or so ago, I reviewed Three Wishes, and in my review, I implored her to get writing POST HASTE so that I could have more of her books to read. And she wrote back:

"By some miracle I am reading this! I am procrastinating by googling reviews of my books when I should be writing. I was so happy to read such a lovely review of Three Wishes - thank you so much. It's VERY motivational and I will now stop surfing the net and get back to my writing."

I wondered then what she was working on, and now I know! I can't wait until June, so I can devour it, too.

This title will be released on June 14, 2012.

Gallop!

2012-01-24T11:44:00.000-08:00

I'm a little bit in love with these scanimation picture books by Rufus Butler Seder. The bold graphics, the little panels, featuring animals that swoop and dip and gallop and strut as you flip the pages. What's not to love?

Scanimation uses a technology based on the same principles as kinetoscopes, zoetropes, and other nineteenth century antiques that employed an optical illusion using the persistence of memory to create the flow of motion. [from School Library Journal]

I tend to pull Seder's books out at least every other day for storytime simply because they're so cute, and they lack that brain-eating repetitive vibe of so many kids' books. I've also taken to leaving them on the coffee table in lieu of our usual art and photography books, and everybody who comes through our door, young and old, is drawn to them right off the bat. There's something magical about them that even the oldest, stodgiest person can fall in love with.

Pure adorableness.

V for Valentine

2012-01-23T08:53:00.000-08:00

Baby Lulu's cold is going away, but slowly. She has to be hooked up to a nebulizer several times a day, which makes her cry and is the saddest thing ever. We also have to stay indoors as long as her cough persists and I've had to get creative to think of activities to keep us from going stir crazy. Today we got crafty, and made Valentines out of old Victory Mail forms I found in an antique store a few years ago and have been saving ever since for a special occasion.

V-Mail was issued by the U.S. government during WWII for sending letters to servicemen and women overseas. Letters were written on the V-mail sheets, which were photographed onto reels of microfilm. The reels were sent to Europe or Africa or the Pacific, where they were printed out and sent onward. The microfilm process allowed a larger number of letters to be transported at once, and made it so soldiers, sailors, and airmen could get word from folks at home more quickly than they would have otherwise.

With a little tweaking in the form of paint, markers, and paraphrased wartime slogans, V-Mail also make fun, vintage, modern-day Valentines.

The red borders and lettering are so festive to me! But the paper is frail (it's close to 70 years old!) so we had to use a light touch to keep ink and paint from bleeding through to the other side. All in all, I think they turned out well, and I love the idea of sending a sweet little history lesson to our family and friends, sealed with a kiss.

You can buy authentic V-mail online (on ebay or sites for reenactors). The authentic V-Mail forms can be pricey--as much as $5 per sheet! But there's a free, printable reproduction available at the National Postal Museum at this link. (Be sure to use first-class postage if you're sending them by mail.)

Of course we listened to some old 1940s love songs while making them, to get us in the mood. Here's one of my all-time faves:

When writers branch out

2012-01-22T22:08:00.000-08:00

I picked up Kristin Gore's Sweet Jiminy this past weekend expecting a lighthearted romp similar to her first two books. Sammy's Hill and Sammy's House recounted the adventures of a young, neurotic political aide to a vice presidential candidate and offered an insider's view of the campaign trail made all the more juicy by the fact that the author's father was once vice president himself. Sweet Jiminy started out in the same vein, with the title character dropping out of law school and retreating to her grandmother's farm in Mississippi to do some soul searching about her future. While there, Jiminy discovers that she has an unexpected namesake, the deceased daughter of her grandmother's African-American maid, Lyn, and that the first Jiminy's death forty-five years earlier was violent and terrible.

"They hunted 'em," he said. "They hunted Jiminy and Edward and they got 'em. Ran Edward's car off the road and drug 'em out and shot 'em. Threw 'em in the river and burned their car. Don't know who, exactly--thing is, coulda been any of 'em. It coulda been all of 'em. That's the way things were."

It took a while to sink into Gore's signature prose, which is prone to a weird choppiness but worth it for the phrases that make you gasp out loud at their beauty and poignancy. Jiminy and Lyn's nephew, Bo, unravel the mystery of the long-ignored murders and try to sidestep the romance brewing between them. Gore takes us into the minds of everyone affected by the murders, including that of the murderers themselves.

For all that, though, Jiminy is not exactly a successful novel. Though the pacing is good and the mystery itself a compelling one, the book is too short by about a hundred pages, and a sense of time, place, and character is often glossed over because there's simply not enough room to deal with them.

But for all that, I think I appreciate Sweet Jiminy, all the same. I appreciate it because it's so dissimilar to Gore's previous works. It's flawed, but it's electrifying, too, to see her branching out into subject matter outside her immediate purview, taking risks with character and plot, embracing darker themes and going into the minds of characters whose life experiences are so different from her own. And it reminded me that it's hard to be formulaic when the formula keeps changing. I would have enjoyed another Sammy-like book, but I couldn't stop myself from marveling at how far Gore has come as a storyteller with Jiminy--and to get excited about where it is that she might go next.

What do you think? Do you like it when one of your favorite writers does something new? Do you find it interesting when authors branch out of their comfort zones, even if they're not successful? Or do you think they should stick with what they know they do well?

The Dalai Lama reads a prayer book

2012-01-20T09:48:00.000-08:00

Of course.

But I mean, wouldn't it be so awesome if he was reading The Hunger Games? "So excited for the movie!"

And speaking of the Dalai Lama, I laugh whenever I think of this video:

Home o'dreams

2012-01-19T07:09:00.000-08:00

Anne had no sooner uttered the phrase, "home o'dreams," than it captivated her fancy and she immediately began the erection of one of her own... she pursued her aerial architecture with such success that her "home o'dreams" was built and furnished before Diana spoke again.

-Anne of Avonlea

There are many things I love about the tiny apartment I share with James and Lulu. The high ceilings and historical architecture of our 1930s building, our amazing, multicultural neighborhood, the walkability of it, the fact that it's bordered on three sides by beautiful parks.

But there are a lot of things I hate, too. The rattling windows that we can't afford to replace. The knocking radiators, that turn our place into an oven in the winter. The lack of a yard, or balcony, or patio. The lack of space. Oh, the lack of space! 850 square feet is NOT ENOUGH for two work-at-home parents and a child (and three cats!) My kingdom for an extra room! For an alcove!

When some people are feeling hemmed in, they handle it by decluttering.

I retreat into a world of PURE IMAGINATION.

________

Hello! Welcome to our house! It's so good to see you. We've been waiting for you.

Why don't you hang your coats up in the foyer and follow me into the living room?

Why, yes, there is lots of natural light. We love the light. Clean? It's really not that hard to keep it clean. Our kid is very low-maintenance. And we tie her hands behind her back at all times. That helps.

Sit down, sit down, I'm just going to pop into the kitchen for a sec to check on supper.

We'll be eating on the patio tonight.

What a glorious meal that was! Such witty conversation! Thank you for sharing it with us. What's that you say? You have imbibed too copiously of the wine at dinner? NO PROBLEM. Why don't you stay the night? Let me show you to our guest room.

The bathroom is right through those doors.

And if you need some light bedtime reading, why don't you choose something from my library?

Not pictured in the home tour: the sauna, the Candi Spelling-esque wrapping paper rooms, the barbecue pit, and the saltwater infinity pool. And the dozens and dozens of rooms we always forget about, because we visit them only about once a week or so. That's how much space we have. WE FORGET ROOMS!

Oh, and Raoul, the pool boy. He's not pictured because he's currently peeling me some grapes.

We are so pleased you stopped by our house, guys!

Come back, y'hear?

(This post brought to you by Pinterest (are you pinning? Follow me! Let's waste time together!) and a(n un)healthy disconnect with reality.)

Waiting on Wednesday: Bloom

2012-01-18T11:31:00.000-08:00

“Waiting On” Wednesday is a weekly event, hosted here, that spotlights upcoming releases that we're eagerly anticipating. This week's pre-publication “can't-wait-to-read” selection is:

From Amazon:

“In her tender and genuinely beautiful memoir, Kelle Hampton encourages us to not simply accept the unexpected circumstances of our lives, but to embrace them like the things we wished for all along.”

—Matthew Logelin, New York Times bestselling author of Two Kisses for Maddy

Bloom is an inspiring and heartfelt memoir that celebrates the beauty found in the unexpected, the strength of a mother’s love, and, ultimately, the amazing power of perspective. The author of the popular blog Enjoying the Small Things—named The Bump’s Best Special Needs Blog and The Blog You’ve Learned the Most From in the 2010 BlogLuxe Awards—Kelle Hampton interweaves lyrical prose and stunning four-color photography as she recounts the unforgettable story of the first year in the life of her daughter Nella, who has Down syndrome. Poignant, eye-opening, and heart-soaring, Hampton’s Bloom is ultimately about embracing life and really living it.

This title will be released April 3, 2012.

9 months later

2012-01-18T07:04:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, Lulu had a cough. It deviled her all day, but we didn't really think anything of it.

Then last night, she started to wheeze. We called the pediatrician's after-hours line, put the phone on speaker so the nurse on call could listen, and then bundled our baby into her carseat for a 2 AM drive to the ER.

I kind of jolted a little when we turned into the ambulance bay instead of heading to the parking garage at the Women's Center, which is where we used to go, three times a day, to visit Lulu in the NICU during those first 15 days of her life. I guess I assumed we'd be going there, instead of to the ordinary triage unit, just out of pure muscle memory. Everything felt unfamiliar--instead of plush couches filled by family members waiting for exciting news of new grandbabies, pale and sweaty people were sprawled out on hard chairs, covered with coats, waiting for their turn to be seen. Instead of a cheerful aroma wafting from the coffee stand, everything smelled strongly of antiseptic and faintly of puke.

We were seen right away. When you say the word "preemie" and "wheezing" they don't fuck around much. Lu had been crying in the car, but in this new and interesting place, she forgot to be woeful. She played with the cords of her oxygen monitor, which beeped out a refrain I remembered so well as the soundtrack from the NICU. The little band that used to fit loosely over her tiny foot? Now only fit around one toe. That's how big she is now, compared to then.

Lulu refused to wheeze for the doctor. Like that Looney Tunes cartoon, where Michigan J. Frog won't sing if there's an audience. Several people listened to her lungs, and finally let us go, with instructions to sit with her in the steamy bathroom overnight or take her out into the cool night air if her coughing got too bad. And so we bundled her back into the carseat and left.

And the roads were so deserted as we pulled out of the hospital complex. It reminded me of leaving the hospital after our midnight visits to our baby last March and April. Only this time, we got to take her home with us instead having to leave her behind. So I didn't cry. But I did kiss my fingers and tap them on the glass of the car window, like I did every time we left back then. Right in the direction of the NICU, sending thoughts of gratefulness to Dr. Eig, Dr. Beck, Ingrid, Kathy, Katie, Donna, Caroline, Miriam...to all of the doctors and nurses and staff who took care of us and our girl. To all of the parents keeping vigil by the isolettes all through the night, this night.

We took our girl home and put her to bed. The night air did its trick. We were all of us breathing easier.

And we thought about what a difference nine months can make.

Winner: Belize Tees giveaway!

2012-01-17T10:43:00.001-08:00

The winner of the "I Like Big Books" t-shirt from Belize Tees is...

Zibilee!

Thanks to everybody who joined in the giveaway to help show love and support to this awesome small business.

_______

Here's some gratuitous baby cuteness for the rest of you:

See how I am just conveniently hiding behind her? Babies are the perfect accessory for a bad hair/no makeup day. I always keep one in my purse, along with lip gloss and an extra mascara wand.

Quick reviews: Phenomenal woman edition

2012-01-16T19:29:00.001-08:00

I've been out of commission this weekend with a bout of flu. On Friday, I started to write a few reviews, but they all fell by the wayside of chills and sneezes. I still don't trust my cold-medicine-addled brain enough to craft one review into a good long one. Will you, then, take four short reviews, instead? I promise to try to make them coherent.

(It wasn't until I'd put all the titles together that I realized that my reading fodder lately seems to be books written by women, for women, about women doing extraordinary things. I wonder if their stories are what empowered me to push through and keep doing laundry even in the midst of feverish body aches?)

Caleb's Crossing by Geraldine Brooks: Colonial-era Bethia Mayfield befriends Caleb, the young son of the chieftan of the Wampanoag tribe. By teaching him English, she starts him on a path of learning that will end with his being the first Native American graduate of Harvard College. This wasn't my favorite of Brooks's novels--the narrative was unbalanced, and some of the plot points were a little convenient. But Bethia's yearning for an education that she can't get because of her sex, her vicarious joy in her friend's triumphs, stuck with me even after I was finished. 3/5 stars.

The Mothers of Reinvention: Reclaim Your Identity, Unleash Your Potential and Love Your Life by Jennifer Pate and Barbara Machen. Jen and Barb, hosts of an award-winning web series, share their tips for how young mothers can find enough time in their busy days to nurture their own interests and passions. The book was a little all over the place, and I cringed over the cheese in a few passages, but there's no denying that the 10-point plan for jump-starting your reinvention and the worksheets, tips, and stories from other moms are useful and inspiring. Note: I received a copy of this book from the publisher. 3/5 stars.

Bossypants by Tina Fey: I know I'm probably the last person on the planet to read Fey's humorous essays about her life and career, but I'm glad I didn't before, because they were a bright point in an otherwise dull weekend. It's refreshing how down-to-earth Fey has remained despite her great success. Reading about her relationship with her daughter, Alice, and her time playing Sarah Palin on SNL were especial favorites. 5/5 stars.

The Discovery of Jeanne Baret: A Story of Science, the High Seas, and the First Woman to Circumnavigate the Globe by Glynis Ridley: I've never read a book quite like this one, which recounts the tale of Jeanne Baret, an 18th century woman who accompanied her lover, the botanist Philibert Commerson, on an expeditionary trip around the globe. Baret collected and classified myriad plants unknown to Western science and dealt with the trials of life at sea all while hiding her identity by posing as a man. Ridley painstakingly reconstructs the story of Baret's life from letters, journals, and a few records, giving enough detail about the era to drive home how remarkable Baret's undertaking was. Ridley obviously feels passionate about her "forgotten heroine," and presents Baret's bravery and accomplishments with a refreshingly unapologetic feminist bent. I gulped it down. Note: I received a copy of this book from the publisher. 4/5 stars.

...the only thing I've circumnavigated lately is a bowl of Lipton soup. The kind with the skinny noodles. Ha-ha-CHEW!

Don't forget to enter the Belize Tees giveaway for the chance to win an "I Like Big Books" t-shirt by noon tomorrow (EST)!

Turn it up, Doris!

2012-01-13T09:37:00.000-08:00

After Christmas, my aunt and cousin and some of our very good friends (who are like other aunts and cousins) came to visit us, and brought with them a HEAP of presents for the baby. SO MUCH baby stuff. Clothes, bibs, itty bitty socks and a mechanical singing dog that Lu is both kind of horrified by and extremely attracted to.

They also brought a little pop-up book. Lu's "Aunt" Barbie sat down and read it to her. There's a wild-haired puppet in the middle. You can put your hand in it and make it sing. Learning to have confidence to sing out loud is the puppet's story.

The puppet's name is Doris. The book is called Turn It Up, Doris!

It isn't one of those childrens books that's made to stomp all over your hormones, but still, I got teary when I read it.

Because Doris was my grandmother's name. She was wild and wacky and crazy funny and it kills me that my little Lulu will never get to meet her. Reading a book with her name in it seemed like a sweet homage to her, a small but real way to keep her memory alive.

There are tons of kids books with "grandparent names" in them (including some beautiful vintage-y ones, which are my favorites). Ira, Alice, Harold, Clifford...the list goes on and on. What a touching baby shower or newborn present a book featuring a loved one's name might make--thoughtful, but without being too loaded or emotionally overwrought.

I love reading Turn It Up, Doris! to Lulu. Sometimes, after we've turned the last page, I tell her a little bit about her great-grandmother.

Sometimes, though, it's just nice to be able to say her name.

Is there a book that reminds you of somebody you love? Can you suggest other "name" books? Please post them in the comments!

Giveaway: Belize Tees!

2012-01-11T06:38:00.000-08:00

I am so pleased and honored to introduce you guys to Belize Tees and Creative Graphics, our very first sponsor over here at Constance Reader!

Belize Tees is an independent business dreamed up by four friends (one of whom, Judy, is a librarian and lifelong booklover) that specializes in garment, vinyl, and sublimation printing on t-shirts, keychains, magnets, coasters--pretty much anything you can dream up. They'll work with you to develop your art or graphic, or you can upload your own design and they'll print it for you. (Parents and grandparents are huge fans of their UV-resistant, fade-proof photo panels).

As a sign of their awesomeness, Belize Tees is offering one Constance Reader the chance to win an "I like Big Books" t-shirt!

Just because the holiday season is over doesn't mean that gift-giving has to come to an end--especially when it means giving a gift to yourself. (You deserve it!)

Here's how you can enter the giveaway:

1. Comment on this entry with your email address
2. Follow BelizeTees on Twitter
3. Follow ConstanceReader on Twitter
4. Retweet the giveaway

Each one gives you an extra chance to win. Do all four, and you'll have FOUR extra chances to win. The giveaway will be open until Tuesday, January 17, at noon, EST.

Don't forget to check out Belize Tees on Facebook and at their Etsy store.

Mischief maker

2012-01-10T09:48:00.000-08:00

In the past day or so, Lulu has managed to combine scooting/reaching/nomming into a perfect storm of BABY RUINATION.

This was once a lovingly handmade Christmas ornament. Gold paint = tasty. Also non-deadly, according to the Poison Control hotline. Thankfully.

I always thought The Gingerbread Man was a pretty horrific story, given the fact that they EAT HIM in the end. I guess I am not alone. Looks like I have a budding book critic on my hands?

That bastard letter Q. Always throws me off my Scrabble game.

This loss rankled the most. I walked into the room to see Alexandre Dumas's face winking at me in horror as Lu waved him around in her flailing hands. "SACRE BLEU! AIDEZ-MOI!" My 10th broken Kindle in two years. Get the warranty, folks! Worth every penny.

I keep remembering the feeble little baby we visited in the NICU nine months ago. Who was so weak she could barely cling to our fingers. It seemed so impossible that she'd ever catch up to the other infants, that one day our tiny Lulu would be rolling and crawling and mischief making like the rest of them.

That seems a VERY long time ago, indeed.

Death Comes to Pemberley, by P.D. James

2012-01-09T07:03:00.000-08:00

Have you guys seen the episode of Louie where Louis C.K. gets his daughter tickets to some teenybopper concert for her birthday? And she opens the envelope and is like, "Oh. I like them very much." And he's all, "WTF kind of reaction is that? Why aren't you more excited?" And it turns out that she considers Hannah Montana or whatever totally lame and really wanted to see Lady Gaga?

That's kind of how I feel about Death Comes to Pemberley. I liked it. I just didn't LOVE it.

For the, like, three people out there who haven't already heard, Death Comes to Pemberley is set six years after the end of Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth Darcy is preparing the manor for an annual ball thrown in honor of Darcy's mother. The night before the ball, a coach carrying an hysterical Lydia rolls up to the front door; she tumbles out screaming about murder. It turns out that Lydia, Wickham and Wickham's friend Captain Denny had decided to crash the party (not being received at Pemberley), and on the way, Wickham and Denny stumbled out into the woods to have an argument. Then Denny got his head bashed in, and now Wickham is accused of doing the bashing.

Did Wickham murder his friend? Will he hang for it? More importantly, will the scandal ruin Georgiana Darcy's matrimonial chances? (It is a truth universally acknowledged that everybody cares far more for Georgiana Darcy than nasty old Wickham).

Murder was the case that they gave him.

Although, by the end of it, I did care for Wickham. I felt for him, which is a sign that James is doing something right. I did not feel anything for any of the other familiar faces, however, because they all seemed to slide in and out of the story without contributing much of anything. James has obviously pored over Austen's original work and has researched the time period meticulously (the court battle was shades of Bleak House). She knows her characters' histories and motivations inside out. She just...didn't give them much to do.

It was a good mystery, with a satisfying-to-untangle resolution. But it would have been better if it had related more closely to its source work, building on, expanding, themes in the original. Because isn't that the point in the first place? Wouldn't it have been better if Darcy's prejudice against another character had resulted in his being falsely accused of that character's murder. If Elizabeth's tendency to pridefulness had spurred her to clear her family's name in a 19th century Miss Marpleish way? As it was, it felt like the characters had been inserted in someone else's story, that they just happened to be there in the background when all of the action was being performed by other people. Some of James's original characters were interesting--the hard-assed investigator Sir Selwyn Hardcastle, for instance--but we aren't reading for Sir Selwyn, are we? We're reading for the Darcys.

But it was a fun read, nevertheless, and a clever idea (even if someone else had it first) and clearly an homage by James to a writer that she loves, and hey, some Darcy and Lizzy is better than no Darcy and Lizzy. James provides an interesting insight into Charlotte Lucas's character that I'd never really thought of before, and the letters from scandalized Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins were pitch perfect and almost enough to make up for the missed opportunities.

Have you read Death Comes to Pemberley? I'm interested to read more about peoples' reactions, so if you have a review, please link it in the comments!

I DON'T LIKE YOUR TWEED, SIR

2012-01-06T09:54:00.000-08:00

Instead of posting a playlist this Friday, I'm going to introduce you guys to chap hop.

Chap hop: English dudes dress up like foppish upper crust, turn-of-the-century cricket players and rap about it.

The true genius of it (as James and I have discussed at LENGTH) is that it's a weird intersection of African American musical expression and the British colonization of Africa.

It all started with this one guy, Professor Elemental.

And then he was challenged by Mr. B, the Gentleman Rhymer.

And then Professor Elemental (who has the obviously better flow) escalated it into an all-out gentlemanly battle of beats.

I'm just waiting for for a track by Bernie Wooster feat. Jeeves. Can someone please, please get on that post-haste?

Happy week-end! (Pretend I said that all British style, week END). Next week I have something exciting planned: our very first giveaway by our very first sponsor! So stay tuned...

Tangerine Tango

2012-01-05T12:40:00.000-08:00

You might have heard that the Pantone color of the year, which will influence fashion and home design and many other industries, has been announced for 2012. A bright, reddish orange called Tangerine Tango. Back in the '80s, my mother had a lipstick just this shade and I thought it was the height of glamour, utterly to die. I would wear tangerine lipstick myself, one day. I promised.

Only by the time I was old enough for lipstick, I'd learned that this was not my shade. No matter--I'm still loving the little pops that are everywhere, these days. This year, I'm going to bring more of it into my life. To that end, I want this, this, and these.

Even the name of the paint color is exciting. Tangerine Tango: It sounds like a resolution in itself. I'm still working on my 30 Things to do While I'm 30 list (How is it that I can think of 500 things right now that I DON'T want to do...but only 18 that I do?) but in the meantime, I am enjoying reading about people who have already started on making 2012 even better than 2011. Here's a list of some of great blogs that are inspiring me to keep my resolutions this year.

-Melanie has resolved to exercise her B.A. in painting by painting everyday and writing about it at An Art Bin

-Kirsty Colquhoun makes daily creations inspired by recipes and projects found on Pinterest

-Richard Radstone is taking 365 portraits of strangers and chronicling their stories.

-This one's kind of a cheat because it's from last year, but it's a goodie: 30-year-old mom Elizabeth Liu resolved to go ONE WHOLE YEAR without shopping and recorded her progress at Flourish in Progress.

-Can you do one kind thing everyday? The folks at Year of Kindness have vowed to.

-Serena has been taking a picture of her breakfast every day for the past 11 months and posting them at 365 Breakfasts. A great reminder not to skip the most important meal of the day!

And it's not exactly the same thing, but it's still exciting: Godfather Patrick is currently in Mexico as we speak where he'll be spending a week learning the art of Mexican home cooking. If we're lucky, he'll share some of what he learns with us over at his blog.

What have you resolved to do in 2012? How is it going so far?

__________

Tangerine Tango: A spirited color to provide "an energy boost...to recharge and move forward."

Sounds about right to me.

Girl Hunter: Revolutionizing the Way We Eat, One Hunt at a Time by Georgia Pelligrini

2012-01-03T18:34:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, James saw Food, Inc. and some other documentary about industrial feed lots and had a nervous breakdown about meat. The direct result of this is that we now buy $17 chickens. $17, heritage breed, lovingly tended, SAT prepped organically and humanely raised chickens, the purchase of which involves standing in the cold in front of a butcher's stall at the local market at the crack of dawn every Saturday morning. The people we buy the meat from are hippies of the rankest degree, and they have this really hideous tendency to advertise what will be available next week by posting pictures of actual living animals. Next week, goat! His name is Herbert! He has NO IDEA.

But apparently all this was not enough for my intrepid husband because this past fall he brought out the rifle bequeathed to him by his grandfather and started fall this crazy talk about how good it would feel to live off the land, to be in touch with his hunter-gatherer roots, to know the meat he was eating was safe because he went out and killed it himself.

I didn't get it. But then I read Georgia Pelligrini's Girl Hunter. And now I think I do.

Hunting is an extension of our being both humans and animals--our first work and craft, one of our original instincts...if you want to feel what it is like to be human again, you should hunt, even if just once. Because that understanding, I believe, will propel a shift in how we view and interact with this world that we eat in.

Pelligrini began her journey as the Girl Hunter as a chef working in a four-star farm-to-table restaurant in upstate New York. One day, she was asked to go out and kill a turkey for service that night, a task that seemed wholly foreign to her. But how could that be? Meat was, after all, one of the tools of her trade. Why, then, should its origin be a mystery to her?

Over the course of twelve months, Pelligrini resolved to live only on the meat that she herself could kill in an attempt to find out whether the "pleasures of knowing what occured on the journey from the field to the table" would alter the way she cooked and ate. Her journey led her to a New Orleans bayou, where she hunted ducks with an environmental lawyer; to the border of Texas and Mexico, where she stared into the small, blind eyes of a pig called javelina; and, scarily, to a vast expanse of empty land in Wyoming, where an encounter with a deer poacher thrust her into danger.

Each chapter recounts the thrill of the successful hunt or the tedium of the unsuccessful one, the beauty of the surroundings, the moment of the kill and the butcher of the animal, in all its bloody detail (Pelligrini isn't a chef who's a writer--she's a writer who happens to also be a chef, so her descriptions are incredibly vivid and sometimes take a little getting used to). And then there are stories of the (mostly) good-hearted people that Pelligrini meets along the way, who take her into their fold--warily, sometimes, at first, but wholeheartedly in the end. It was reading about Pelligrini's winning them over that made me smile the most--each time she made her shot and proved that she was more than a stiletto-wearing, martini-drinking New Yorker, I wanted to cheer.

Pelligrini is passionate about hunting, and doesn't just pay lip service: at the end of each chapter is a series of recipes for the protein discussed in the preceding pages, with detailed and eloquent instructions, ideas for substitutions, and even an appendix for sauces and gravies, with a list of kitchen tools to have on hand when working with game meats. You get the idea that she really wants the reader to experience what she has experienced, to share her wonderful discovery that "the food tastes so much better" her way.

I would have liked to hear perhaps a little more of the worlds-collide aspect of Pelligrini's story; there's a point at which she imagines her Manhattanite friends squealing over the idea of eating squirrel. I would have liked to have seen that. What did her friends think about her efforts? What did her colleagues say?

Overall, though, even without that bit of well roundedness, Girl Hunter is still one of the most interesting and original books I've read in a long time. And convincing--for a minute, I got really excited and started talking about going out to the woods with James. But then I remembered that I have to take a Klonopin when I see those ASPCA commercials on TV and that perhaps I have a way to go before I am quite THERE.

But if James brings home a squirrel? I'll be more than glad to help him make up a batch of Pelligrini's squirrel putach, no problem.

Note: I received a copy of this book from the publisher.

Christmabirthday 2011

2011-12-27T23:57:00.000-08:00

People warned me not to get my hopes up for Lu's first Christmas. She's only nine months old...she's not really going to know what's going on. It might be too much for her, too overwhelming. Or just another day. Underwhelming.

But this baby...

She knew exactly what day it was. Her face looked like that all day long. Lit up with pure wonder.

I loved every minute of it. This Christmas delivered--in the most Kelle Hamptonish of ways.

__________

I turned 30 yesterday. There were beignets for breakfast. There were Christmas cookies with candles. There was a visit from good friends after dinner, and there is a nice stack of books waiting to distract me from any lingering angst I might have about hitting this big milestone birthday.

30 is definitely off to a good start.

On the eve of my 20th birthday, way back in 2001, I wrote a letter to myself at 30, which I promptly misplaced. But I remember what was in it: a sketch of a life plan for the next ten years. Where I hoped I'd be at 30. A couple of the things on the list were things I wanted so badly: to marry James, to have a baby. But most of the goals were things that other people expected of me, that I expected of myself because I was measuring my life against some kind of one-size-fits-all life yardstick. Go to grad school. Make a lot of money. Buy a house. Some of these things I failed at. Some of these things I rocked. But I still wasn't satisfied. Because they weren't the things that I really wanted.

This letter I'm writing at age 30 to myself at 40 is so different. There are no huge life goals I've set out for myself in it. Get a tattoo, this letter says, instead. Throw a dinner party. Sing at a piano bar. Send your book off to agents. Then start another one. Do all these little things that make you happy, things you were too afraid to do before. Because life is short. Because I want to. Because I can.

To get myself started, I'm working on a list of 30 things I'm GOING to do while I'm 30--I'll post it here when I have it finished. You guys will keep me on track, right? And kick my ass into action when I start overthinking it all?

I'm excited for 30. I'm pretty sure this is going to be the best year yet.

And I'm excited to have my little buddy at my side while I do all of these small, great things.

__________

Now the clock is just about to roll over to midnight, which means it's almost officially James's birthday. Which means that tomorrow, there will be EVEN MORE cake.

See what I mean about off to a good start?

Happy Holidays, from us to you.

2011-12-24T08:16:00.001-08:00

How Santa got his groove back:

2011-12-23T05:39:00.000-08:00

Looks like somebody found some new facial hair. Look at that smug little smile.

________

Our friend John filmed this year's Solstice festivities. I think his Australian accent in the background really classes the thing up. It's like Lifestyles of the Rich and Pagan. Fast-forward to 3:20 if you want to see the breaking of the darkness. 8:10 for fireworks.
________

Here's what we've been up to in the past few days:

We made salt dough ornaments. Click here to see the (NSFW!) one that Daddy made.

We made homemade marshmallows. We used Heather Spohr's recipe. So easy! So tasty! We'll never go back to the store-bought kind.

And speaking of Santa, Godfather Dave donned his suit again last night...this time, to play with his band at the Velvet Lounge.

Everybody loved it. The ladies especially. Gave a whole new meaning to "Ho, ho, ho!" (Har, har, har.)

________

This baby loves the iPhone:

Almost as much as she loves being an asshole in sushi restaurants. Remember the days where she would sleep peacefully in her stroller throughout the loudest, longest, most raucous of meals? OVER FOREVER.

(Try to hear the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey when you view the pictures above. Da.....daaa...da...DA-DA! Bum-bum bum-bum bum-bum...)

T-2 days, kemo sahbees. I currently have accidentally uncovered the identity of every single present I'm getting and have simultaneously NOT FINISHED SHOPPING for everybody on my list. YUP.

The Barbarian Nurseries by Hector Tobar

2011-12-22T05:50:00.000-08:00

Welp, of course it happens this way. The minute I confess that I only read crap in the year 2011, I go and read a real, bona fide, amazing, literary novel. I could have written about it instead if I had only waited a few days, but I didn't, and so now you all know my shame.

The book was The Barbarian Nurseries by Hector Tobar. The New York Times gushed all over it and picked it as one of this year's notable books, and so I read it because I have this contrarian, hatery compulsion to go THAT'S NO SO GREAT whenever anybody gushes all over anything. But this book really was so great. I agree with you, New York Times. Which I know must make you very happy.

Scott and Maureen Torres-Thompson's affluent life is distintegrating along with the economy and their marriage is following suit. They've had to let all of their Mexican staff go, save for Araceli, their brusque, no-nonsense maid. When their fights over money escalate, husband and wife decide to abscond from home, each to teach the other a lesson, and Araceli is inadvertently left stranded with the two young Torres-Thompson boys. When the parents haven't returned after four days, Araceli sets off to find the boys' estranged Mexican-American grandfather, armed only with a decades-old photograph with an address printed on the back. Their journey takes them from their comfortable enclave on Paseo Linda Bonita in McMansionville into the seedier suburbs of Los Angeles.

And then the Torres-Thompson parents return home to find their children missing and sic the law on their illegal maid. And suddenly this woman who people used to look past without seeing, who only existed fuzzily in the background of family photographs, is front and center in the middle of a media shitstorm that encompasses the entire Torres-Thompson family.

Through the courtroom battle that ensues, Tobar shines light on every conceivable viewpoint regarding the immigration debate in a way that shows how well he understands all sides of the issue. It's all very interesting and compelling in that ripped-from-the-headlines way that Law & Order is supposed to be but actually isn't, because it sucks, and you see the million ways that people misunderstand each other every day but how they depend on each other, too, and how this dynamic weaves a fabric of bitterness, paranoia, loyalty, and hatred.

It's all very well done and GOD KNOWS I love me a good courtroom drama, but the best part of this book, the meat and drink of this book, is the journey undertaken by Araceli and the Torres-Thompson boys. As they roam the alleyways and ghettos of Los Angeles, searching for old Abuelo Torres, the narrative shifts so that we slip seamlessly into the lives and thoughts of everybody they encounter in this rich, Joycian way, sometimes for only a few lines, sometimes for longer.

The effect is a panoramic view of a certain place in a certain time, seen through the eyes of the African-American old-timer who remembers when the city had "a proper stiffness to it," to the Princeton-bound daughter of a Mexican-American councilman, to the Korean boutique owner whose rich uncle has bankrolled her dreams of success in America, all the while expecting her to fail. What Steinbeck did for the Salinas Valley region of California, Tobar does for L.A.: defines it, familiarizes it, guides us into it and lets us see it for ourselves. Araceli and Scott and Maureen are the three main characters in this story, but the story itself is that of a city in flux, a "very strange North American circus" in which none of the actors know their roles because their roles are rapidly changing.

When you live far away, you never associate California with clutter. When Araceli was in a messy home, when the beds were not made and the dishes were left unscrubbed, she invariably felt pangs of disappointment and loss....Now Araceli could see that this place called California was like a home that had fallen in a state of obsolescence and neglect...She wanted to take all the exhausted American people she'd seen and give them freshly starched clothes to wear and she wanted to take all the misplaced objects and put them back where they belonged. [p. 350-351].

Hector Tobar won a Pulitzer Prize for Journalism in 1992 (when he was um, TWENTY FREAKING NINE, which means I have exactly FOUR days left to win one if I'm going to follow his life plan) for his coverage of the Rodney King race riots for the L.A. Times. Nobody seems to be predicting it yet, but I think he should probably win another in 2012--this time for Fiction. "Distinguished fiction by an American author, preferably dealing with American life?" The Barbarian Nurseries is all about American life--from the perspective of both "real" Americans and those who linger in their shadows with deep, rich dreams of their own.

Have you read Tobar's book? What did you think of it? I'd love to hear your thoughts so comment or post a link to your review.

Solstice

2011-12-21T08:18:00.000-08:00

Every year, on the longest night of the year, we gather with friends to banish darkness.

A painted round pinata represents the darkness--we took turns striking it with a hatchet. Inside, was this gold orb, filled with money. We beat the shit out it, too. If you want to see a group of adults hit the floor as rowdy kids, this is the way to do it.

(Hey, times are hard out there. I collected enough Sacajawea dollars to put a gallon in my tank and throw a load of laundry on for good measure.)

We welcomed back the light. This involves fire, in the form of illegal fireworks, purchased by our hosts in Pennsylvania and smuggled into their Virginia backyard.

They're lucky they have cool neighbors.

Lulu spent a lot of time looking up--at twinkly lights arranged in constellations overhead, at streamers of fireworks, at faces of friends. At the smoky, empty expanse of flat, dark sky.

My parka still smells like a campfire burning with handfuls of sage.

We'll know, in the coming days and weeks, as the darkness abates by a few moments every day, as the days grow longer and the nights shorter, whether our efforts worked, whether we broke the banner of darkness and safely called back light and warmth for another year.

In the meantime, we'll revel in cold air on our cheeks, cold beers on our lips, and a light we can pass from friend to friend.

A best of 2011 list and whole lot of hair

2011-12-15T19:34:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year again...for people all over the book-blogosphere to assemble their Best Of lists. I love reading Best Of lists. And I usually like writing them. I hoard books from January to December, little treasures, saving them up to tell you about at the end of the year. But this year, it's just not happening for me. Probably because this year, the bulk of what I read were embarrassing, nonliterary fluff books. The kind you read while soaking in the bathtub, when you are so tired that it doesn't matter if your eyes slide over a paragraph or two.

So I have nothing to offer you guys this year unless you will take:

The Top 5 Most Embarrassing Nonliterary Fluffy Bathtub Books I Read in 2011 but Totally Actually Secretly or Even Nonsecretly Enjoyed.

1. Sing You Home by Jodi Picoult: A woman goes through IVF. Loses her baby. Divorces her husband. Falls in love with another woman; wants to have a baby with said woman using frozen embryo from IVF with husband. Bigoted husband will not relinquish custody of embryo because he hates the gays. Court battle ensues. Lots of purple, Picoultish I carried her heart in my hands lest it fall and shatter prose. Comes with CD of folk songs to be played at the end of each chapter for added emotional manipulation. I cried. Of course I cried. How could you not cry?

2. Odd Mom Out and Mrs. Perfect by Jane Porter: The embarrassment from these books comes from their teeth-squeakingly awful titles and their pink, shoe-emblazoned covers. Give them more serious-sounding titles and not-so-pink covers and they would not have made the list. In Odd Mom Out, a single mom moves to Seattle and is bullied by a group of snoburban bitches. Mrs. Perfect tells the story behind one of those bitches' snobbishness, reveals the cracks in her "perfect" life. Really insightful writing; still would not have ventured to read it except for on Kindle, where nobody could see my shame.

3. The Luxe by Anna Godberson: What if Gossip Girl was set in 1920s Manhattan? Yeah. It ruled.

4. Something Dangerous by Penny Vincenzi: The second in a trilogy of books recounting the torrid adventures of one family from WWI through the 1950s. There is cuckolding. There is war. There is sex. There are Nazis. There is almost-incest. I described this book in great detail at a party a few months ago and when I had finished people blinked for a while and then tried to talk about something else but it didn't really work and finally they just trickled away from me to go start fresh with someone else.

5. The Scottish Prisoner by Diana Gabaldon: I am only about 10 pages into this one. But it still makes the list. Because: Jamie Fraser, Lord John Grey, time-travel, inappropriate homosexual advances, secret dalliances, writhing muscles, AYE SASSENACH. And I am loving every bit of it.

So that's my very unglamorous reading year in review. Ring out, wild bells, et cetera, et cetera. I promise that in 2012 I will read some David Foster Wallace. Or Proust. Or something.

______

I got my hair done yesterday at a new place. With a new stylist. So we had to do that whole "getting to know all about you" thing that you do when you get a new stylist. We shared tidbits of our lives back and forth and I mentioned that I had a new baby and Shanti, this tall, willowy woman, mentioned SHE had a baby too and I was like, "What like a year and a half ago?" and she swiveled her slim hips and was all, "No, in September. When did you have yours?" And I looked all 110 lbs of her up and down and looked at my stomach lumping over the band of my yoga pants in the mirror.

And then my mouth opened and I said "June." Because I guess my brain thought that sounded better than "March?" Because if my baby is six months old instead of nine, I have an excuse for those lingering 10 (20) lbs that I haven't yet shed? It's weird--up until now, I haven't really worried or even thought about the leftover baby weight besides trusting, in a passing sort of way, that it will go away eventually. I usually think I look hot. So I don't know why I said what I said. But I have decided to blame my saying it on the patriarchy (they're used to it by now).

The worst part was, Shanti did an excellent job on my hair. The color is so great. And when I told her I didn't want too much length taken off my hair, she listened. And she made the ends all flippy. And I'm going to go back to her, and I'm going to have to forever remember to make Lu three months younger than she actually is lest I give myself away and violate the sacred trust between stylist and stylee.

A tangled web, indeed.

______

Speaking of hair, Lulu finally has it. Or some of it. At least, enough of it for this:

And while I fall firmly on the side of NOT reinforcing gender roles and my parenting tactics for a baby boy would be pretty much identical to those for a baby girl, this was SUCH a "Whoa, I have a daughter" moment for me and I loved it.

______

Since I'm apparently putting all my hair-related anecdotes in one place, I'll add that this week, I finally badgered James into shaving the prized Fu Manchu moustache that he's had since this time last year. He emerged from the bathroom, clean shaven...and Lulu began to howl. Like full on STRANGER, STRANGER, ALERT CPS howls. She didn't recognize him. She huddled into my shoulder and cringed away from the smooth-faced stranger and would not let him hold her and it was all very traumatic. Especially for James.

It took a few days, but in the end, she has warmed up to him again. Only--and I would not tell James this--but I am not entirely sure she knows that he's the same Daddy as before. I think she's like, "Welp, the Shaggy Dude seems to have gone...this guy seems cool, though. He gives me bottles and stuff." It's sort of sad but also reassuring in a weird way--if I ever get hit by a truck or something, they can just stuff a sweatshirt with my old socks and paint a face on a volleyball and voila: Out with Boobs Lady and In with Wilson Mommy.

Of course James is lobbying hard to bring the moustache back and restore equilibrium in our small child's universe. To which I say: nice try. Long live Clean-Shaven Daddy. Lu likes his dimples.

And so do I.