I Flip Pages

From Cover to Cover (Rehashing Posts Again)

2013-05-21T00:50:00.000-07:00

Way before this book blog was born, way before our book club came into existence, I was already harping about books.

For my Icebreaker speech at our Toastmasters Club--that's the first ever speech a member delivers as a way of introducing the self to the other members--I narrated my life using books as milestone marks.

Originally published here.

From Cover to Cover
by TM Gege C. Sugue
(Icebreaker Speech-Unedited Version)

Ladies and Gentlemen, fellow Toastmasters, aside from God and my husband, there are two other great loves of my life.

One love is reading.

The other is traveling.

To me, reading is the same thing as traveling; except I can do it white staying glued to a chair, or more often to my bed. Plus, it costs me much less. Reading transports me to places, exposes me to different cultures, and never leaves me unchanged.

Friends, this is one favorite read. Blindness by Nobel Peace prize winner, Jose Saramao. I like it because of the literary style. Saramago has been compared to Kafka, but to me he has a style uniquely his own. In this novel, he never uses proper names to identify the characters. He uses descriptors like “the man with the eyepatch”, “the girl with insomnia”, “the woman with dark glasses”, or “the son of the woman with the dark glasses”. Yet the quality and richness of the narrative never suffers.

What I like best about this book is the premise itself.

It starts with the experience of a man suddenly losing his sense of sight. Suddenly all he could see was a sea of white. Imagine his shock. Imagine his confusion. Imagine his fear. How could he find his way back home? How could he be seeing one minute, and be blind the next?

And all around the city, different people were experiencing the same phenomenon.

That is how the story starts. This is a story of an epidemic of blindness.

Close your eyes for a moment and open your mind –- imagine an epidemic of blindness. I could be standing here and suddenly, I’m blind. Tomorrow, all of you in this room will go blind. The day after, all the people in your household will be blind as well.

Imagine an epidemic of blindness in your home, in your town, in this country, in the world.

Imagine the chaos. Imagine the accidents. Imagine the hysteria. Imagine what the government would do. Imagine how good people would go mad. Imagine how already evil people would get even more vile.

Imagining is the best thing about reading. It’s never just about the words and the lines we read. It’s what goes on between the lines. It’s what goes on in between your ears. Reading makes you imagine, makes you think. It expands mind, heart, soul, and spirit. Reading adds drama to my life.

My life is not all that dramatic. I would not call it boring since there is always something new and exciting happening. But the basic plot is hardly worthy of submission to Charo Santo or Mel Tiango for dramatization on TV. My childhood was as typical as typical could be. Middle class family. My parents were both Certified Public Accountants, loving, responsible, conservative folks who did not have substance or physical abuse issues. My life revolved around school and home. It was pretty mundane.

The greatest adventures of my childhood were spent with a redheaded 18-year-old girl called Nancy. Nancy Drew solved mysteries. I solved math problems. Nancy Drew was an only child. I was number 2 of 7. Nancy Drew lived an exciting life. She traveled to Cairo and London, Bangkok, Hollow Oak, and Larkspur lane. With Nancy Drew, I’ve gone skiing, I’ve ridden in a stagecoach, driven a convertible. With Nancy Drew, I’ve joined the circus, gone camping, gone on a quest for a missing map, and solved the mystery of the fire dragon.

From Nancy Drew, I made a huge leap to Harold Robbins. Harold Robbins was my first sex education teacher. My mother tried to hide her Robbins books, but remember that I was Nancy Drew. I was a sleuth. I could find things that are hidden. And I could hide things so that they could not be found.

Eventually, I realized I was too young for Harold Robbins. So I calibrated by reading the more age-appropriate Sweet Dreams and Sweet Valley High series. I was reading P.S. I Love You when I had my first boyfriend at the age of 15, a couple of years before college. For the first time, my reading material and my real life were running parallel.

You would think that loving books as I did, I would have taken up journalism in college. I almost did, but my mom gave me what seemed then like wise advice – “Anak, walang pera sa journalism.” And to a teenager who wanted to have the latest fashions, Sperry Topsiders and penny loafers, not having money was a very bad thing. So I chose architecture, and then shifted to Clothing Technology, which brought me to a career in fashion. For 10 years of my life, I was so involved in work that I hardly had time to read. I read fashion books.

Then I traded fashion books for books like this. This Herb Bible and all my other books on cooking and home decorating signified my maturing into a spouse and home manager, my evolution into a domestic diva. Yes I was, and still am, a Martha Stewart wannabe. As a Mrs., I relished the joys of being a housewife, cooking puttanesca and making pannacotta. The homemaker in me, however, hardly stayed home. Most of the time, my husband and I were off to some place we have not yet been.

And that brings me to another favorite book. Lonely Planet – where my two great loves, reading and traveling, collide. It gives me boundless joy to explore this amazing country of 7,100 islands. I brought this book along with me to Pagudpod, Palawan, Boracay, Bohol, Rizal and even to forgotten corners of Manila. This book will continue to travel with me to other places I still long to visit – Batanes, Camiguin, Surigao.

In the meantime, however, Philippine island hopping has to wait as I take a momentary exile in a totally different land, a land whose language, culture, and flavors are so unique, so exotic, so rich that not even Lonely Planet Vietnam can capture its spirit.

Vietnam is an amazingly beautiful country, but for somebody far from home, away from family, friends, everyone and everything comfortable, it was also a land of darkness. Hanoi is almost always overcast. The gray of the skies manage to seep into my soul. And it was so spiritually dark for me.

Again, it is a book that turned my life around. And this is the greatest book of all. This is not my regular bible. My regular bible is bigger, heavier, and much dirtier with scribbles and highlights, frayed on the edges, and some pages torn off the spine. But whether it is the old bible, or this new, hip, metal-encased version, the words inside are the same words of non-negotiable truth straight from God’s lips to my hungry heart.

This book contains God’s love letters to me. This book revives my soul, gives joy to my heart, and gives light to my eyes. This book heals. This book saves. This book guides. This book comforts me. This book is alive.

Yes, books are my life. And this particular book is my life.

The Dog Ate My Books and Other Excuses Why I Stopped Flipping

2013-04-29T00:57:00.000-07:00

Ever since I got into a book club back in 2007, my reading life has flourished. In quality and quantity. If memory serves me right, I pushed myself to read 50 books in 2008, 60 in 2009, and 70 in 2010. I also joined a few reading challenges, including the A to Z Challenge, where we had to read 26 books, each one representing a letter in the alphabet, based on author's surnames.

Then in 2011, I failed in all my quantity and genre challenges. Last year, 2012, my reading life screeched to almost a full stop. My reading life deteriorated so much that my best and worst books were the same book. I did not read enough books last year to justify a selection process.

I did try. I never completely stopped reading. I remained the kind of person who gets antsy when stuck without anything to read in a grocery line. I tried to read most of the books we had for our club's monthly book discussions. Tried. I read enough chapters to participate in the discussions, at least those I got to attend. But I failed to complete any of them.

Count of Monte Cristo, Geography of Bliss, Game of Thrones, It Must've Been Something I Ate--all half read. Not because the books were bad, but because I was just a bad reader.

But why? What happened? Well, the dog ate my books.

Following are the rest of my excuses:

Because I have to. Those who knew me in high school knew that books, at least those I had to read for school, remained crisp, clean, unread all throughout the school year. I did read back then, but my books were those I was not allowed to read. Books my mom tried to keep from me--books by Harold Robbins, Sidney Sheldon, a fair amount of Mills & Boons.

But I rebelled against reading text books and other required reading.

And whoever forced me to read The Old Man and the Sea is the one to blame. Whose bright idea was it to impose this story on high school kids? I mean, really. We were the first generation to grow up on fast food. If we wanted tuna, all we needed was a can opener. And so this story was sheer torture for those with undiagnosed attention deficit. The battle between man and fish--who friggin' cared? I didn't. And it was painful that it took too long for nothing to happen.

So I learned my lesson and left Iliad, Dante's Inferno, Florante and Laura, and other books unopened. I had to read Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice, mainly because I had to act out the parts of Shylock and Portia. But I only read the parts I had to memorize.

I hated required reading. And it was Ernest Hemingway's fault. It would take decades before I forgave him enough to watch the Chris O' Donnell-Sandra Bullock movie adaptation of Farewell to Arms.

So the point is: I have a built-in aversion to required reading. And inasmuch as reading with my book club is fun, the have-to part of it makes reading a bit of a task.

Because it's too sad to read. In 2011, my sister's brain tumor decided to make a comeback, and one of its sad effects on my sister was a degree of blindness that made it really hard for her to read. Helping her son through his homework made her dizzy. And I felt, even though I knew I shouldn't be, guilty to be able to read. Somehow, that robbed me of the joy of reading. And when she passed away that same year, I got too busy drowning my sadness in potato chips and drenching my heart in soda to really make reading a priority. I don't want to wallow, and I certainly don't want to use my sister's death as an excuse, but I mention this here because on hindsight, I did realize this was one of the main reasons reading temporarily lost its appeal.

And today, to think positively, I just appreciate the blessing, the privilege of being able to read.

Because my brain is tired. Work. Traveling for work. Work and more work. That's the usual excuse for not being able to read. And I'm going to use that convenient excuse. Because it's true. The past couple of years were crazy. And out-of-town training trips made me miss a number of book discussions, which lessened the urgency and the desire to read the book for the month.

Plus, when your job requires a lot of reading and writing, and reading and rewriting other people's works, when the time comes to rest, the last thing you want to see is words.

Because IPad. I don't really have to explain the highly-distracting power of the tablet, do I?

And the next is the strongest reason, my top excuse.

Because I am old and now need glasses. For all my life, I have abused my eyes. Because I'm rebellious. And my mom's shrilly nagging--"Don't stay too close to the TV, masisira mata mo! Stop reading in the car! Stop reading in the dark. Stop reading when it's too bright!"--just made me do the opposite. Despite the abuse, the doctor still told me that I was going to have 20/20 vision until I hit 40.

At that time, 40 seemed too far away, and I was, in fact, hoping to need to wear glasses because they're cute and sexy.

Then I hit 40, and my eyes were just fine. And I would smirk, feeling superior to my peers who held their phones a kilometer away from their faces, with their eyes squinting as if they were reading the E D F C Z P line of the eye chart. Back then, I felt maybe my doctor's prediction was wrong, and I was really one of those with super vision who would never ever need glasses.

I was 43 when the superpower delusions came crashing down. But even then, I only needed reading glasses. Which meant that I would normally feel that my eyesight's normal, could walk out of the house, drive away, and not feel any vision impairment. And then I would find myself with time to read while in a waiting room, and I would realize I forgot my sexy glasses at home. Dang. And that happened often enough (because vision impairment comes with memory loss) that I just got out of the habit of reading in waiting rooms and payment queues. Goodbye, ambitious reading targets.

I also realized that there's nothing sexy about asking the sales associate to read the price ticket for me, "Ineng, pakibasa."

My eyesight is not really that bad. My prescription is only for 100. I can still read a regular book or a document with font 11 text, but the lighting has to be good. The book and I have to be still to minimize blur. But I can read only for a few minutes before my eyes feel the strain. Eyeglasses now required. Three years after I started needing them, they remain pesky little things I forget to bring with me. I have tried solving the problem by buying several pieces that I have placed in all the strategic places where I might need to read. So far, it's working. So far, I've been flipping more than before.

You guessed it, our dog really did not eat my books. Isa, our black labrador died of old age few years back. I offer no excuses. But understanding the reasons why I stopped reading has helped me find ways to work on ways to revitalize my reading life.

I'm back flipping.

Loving books in the time of Shelfari

2013-04-28T22:46:00.000-07:00

This was originally published here. Transferring it to this book blog for posterity. I just added the pictures today.

MANILA, Philippines - Gege Cruz Sugue’s fictional worlds involve Jose Saramago and Margaret Atwood characters and a farmer named Eda Mame in Farmville. She teaches college students, conducts communication workshops for corporate learners, provides marketing consultant services, and writes for corporate clients. She is part of a shelfari (www.shelfari.com) based book club called Flips Flipping Pages. Gege blogs about her book lust at http://gegeflipspages.blogspot.com)

“And how long do you think we can keep up this coming and going?” he asked.

Florentino Ariza had kept his answer ready for fifty-three years, seven months, and eleven days and nights.

“Forever,” he said. Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

I have this shameful fantasy. I find my husband in the arms of another woman. Shocked beyond consolation, I drive, dive to the nearest bookstore. In a frenzy, I ravage shelves and grab everything to ease the pain and fill the aching hole in my heart. My book lust would be impossible to sate, but I go on in my bitter, half-crazed state, putting books in shopping carts. When, finally, my tears are depleted and only Deepak Chopras and Dan Browns are left on the shelves, I head to the counter and swipe my husband’s platinum Amex.

That is my adulterous revenge.

Because books those glorious, beguiling books are my lovers, hopeless addictions, the seduction I battle with constantly. My husband is jealous of only one thing--my books. The love of my life that causes him agony--my book collection and the avarice to have more.

This never-to-happen fantasy only flashes in the video factory of my mind whenever I lustfully, longingly leer at beautiful, sexy books in a bookstore. When the budget is finite and the desire is infinite. When I fondle a book I desire, I experience the push and pull of coveting and tempering that brings me into a state of guilty confusion, like that of a virgin trying to stay so.

Loving books is a sickness that turns its victims into depraved lunatics. When did this sickness start? Like most other adult dysfunctions, the mother is to blame. My mother taught me to read when I was three. Most kids perform for adults by singing or dancing. My mother showed off my talents by making me read the front page of a newspaper.

I started with the Ladybird series those charming, little books that unwittingly became gateway drugs to this addiction. I read Rapunzel and Rumpelstiltskin, mesmerized by worlds so different from mine. The first book that made me cry was The Little Match Girl, the story of a poor girl dying on New Year’s Eve. Books then became emotion-enhancing pills.

Early signs of a malady, a malaise that can only be stilled by reading a book.

Loving books is not just about reading. It’s something physical, sensual. Author Anne Fadiman calls it carnal when the book’s physical being gives a booklover joy. Its weight, the tactile delight of paper, the sound of flipping pages, the heady scent of a worn-out edition.

One book is never enough. To love books is to want many.

Again, my mother was to blame for this avarice. She and Nancy Drew. It started with one book, which I devoured in a few hours. Nancy Drew lived an exciting life, certainly more exciting than mine. With Nancy Drew, I traveled to Cairo, London, Bangkok; rode a stagecoach; drove a convertible; joined the circus; and had a boyfriend named Ned. Mom gave me more. In multiples. Every birthday, Christmas, any occasion was an excuse to bring me more, until finally I completed all 56 of the classic series.

The beginning of an addiction to accumulation.

Now, here I am with 2,000 books competing for shelf space, knowing that this lifetime would not be enough for me to read them all. The craving remains uncurbed.

There’s another hunger for a soulmate. Not the romantic kind. But a literary soulmate, somebody whose shelf mirrors mine, somebody who was as spellbound as I was by Saramago’s Blindness, as wickedly amused as I was by Palahniuk’s Fight Club, but would understand when sometimes, I just want cheesy motivational fluff from Fulghum. This soulmate abhors New Age, finds Dan Brown overrated, and will never ever finish Lord of the Rings. My soulmate is strangely magnetized by books with penguins on orange spines. He or she is addicted to craft books, collects biographies but never read them, and loves the Christian musings of Don Miller. This soulmate is only slightly embarrassed to admit to never having read Harry Potter. And he or she has fallen in love with the Bible’s book of Exodus.

I must have started aching for a literary soulmate a decade ago when I read Patrick Suskind’s Perfume. No one in my circle of friends had heard of it. Perfume is the story of a diabolical character who feeds on the scent of virgins close to death. Not common reader fare. But I felt this strange need to find somebody with whom I can talk about the book. But I was afraid nobody would understand.

Several years later, I chanced upon Jose Saramago’s Blindness, a story of an epidemic of blindness. In a fictional land, people started seeing nothing but a sea of white. Anyone who tries to cure or care for the blind goes blind as well. Chaos and hysteria ensue. Followed by the loss of human dignity and the surfacing of man’s basest instincts. It was a fantastic story, and again, I had no one to share the experience with.

In Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera, those infected with cholera were quarantined in a riverboat. Shelfari is today’s quarantine for those infected with bibliophilia. In this online community, we are free to discuss without shame, judgment, and only with a tinge of guilt, how we have taken part in the killing of trees for the sake of literature. Here we expose our darkest, most embarrassing secret acts of excess book love. We confess to kissing bookstore floors, reaching for hidden stash. We admit how bookstore warehouse sales turn us into raving, frothing-in-the-mouth maniacs. Some talk of locking their doors while they meticulously, obsessively cover their books in plastic. Someone confessed, she’s waded through waist-deep flood waters, keeping her books above her head, worrying more about keeping her book dry than catching cholera. We will maim ourselves and others for a chance to wrestle a long-dreamt-of book away from somebody else. In this time of online communities, Shelfari is the world where we can insulate ourselves against those who don’t understand our affliction.

Have I found my soulmate yet? No. We are too diverse in personalities and book preferences. When we discussed Azar Nafisi’s Reading Lolita in Teheran, everyone lambasted the book; I was the only one who looked beyond the sedate, academic style of narration to find something to love, to appreciate about it. Florentino Ariza waited 53 years and was willing to wait forever for the love of his life. Maybe my search will take 53 years, maybe forever. In the meantime, in Shelfari, I am embraced by those who are not afraid to catch this sickness, this perverse disease of loving books.

Have book, will travel

2013-04-03T14:49:00.001-07:00

This was originally published here: http://www.philstar.com/sunday-life/229824/have-book-will-travel . I won a 5,000 gift card from National Book Store for this. Yay!

Accidentally found the article through Google. I'm posting this now in my blog for the sake of posterity, and maybe also to convince you get a copy, a copy you can wear out as you travel up, down, far, wide, through these beautiful Philippine islands.

Have book. Will travel.

For what seemed like five full seconds I was frozen, suspended in the murky Donsol waters. I was awestruck, immobile, and were it not for the need to keep my snorkel in place, my mouth would have been open in amazement at this magnificent creature gliding in front of me. And then, the moment was gone. The speckled whale shark known for its bashfulness spotted the neon fins, realized it had company, and disappeared into the plankton haze underneath. It was time to heave our bodies back into the boat, which would once more cruise the sea looking for more butandings for us to interact with and marvel at.

Back at the resort I was lamenting the fact that I had no underwater camera to capture what our eyes feasted upon some hours back. Giving me consolation was the book I had in my hands. Lonely Planet Philippines supplied me with a black and white sketch of the whale shark along with some information about its size, habitat, and characteristics. It wasn't quite as good as a real photograph, but it still helped recreate the image in my mind. This much-treasured book of mine also helped me appreciate the creatures more with its mention that despite their magnitude, whale sharks are gentle, harmless giants.

Later in the trip, that dog-eared, sand-marked, kare-kare-stained paperback would guide us around the sights of Bicol and would help us find a decent place to stay in when we decided to move to another hotel.

My Lonely Planet Philippines book is my second favorite travel companion. It would be my favorite if only it could drive, carry my luggage, give me shopping money, and cap my vacation days with a back rub the way my husband, a.k.a. number one favorite traveling companion, could. Like him, this book is reliable, entertaining, informative, and can get me out of navigation predicaments. Unlike my husband, it encourages frequent stopovers for scenic breaks and does not complain about my avarice for photo opportunities.

It's multi-purpose too. In its green waterproof casing, it can function as a pillow when I'm roughing it up and napping on a beach blanket somewhere.

Lonely Planet Philippines has taken me through the cobbled streets of Vigan, guided me through a tricycle tour of Tacloban, led my famished stomach to Las Vegas Canteen and Restaurant in Banaue, showed me the way to Pagudpod, gave me a preview of Tagbilaran and Panglao, advised me where to stay the night before the Pahiyas festival, pointed me towards the charming hideaway of Café Kamarikutan in Puerto Princesa, clued me in on Baguio's Tam-Awan Village, advised me where to find Internet connections in Sorsogon, and directed me towards places where I could buy wicker baskets, burnay pots, and binagol.

Lonely Planet represents my two biggest passions--traveling and reading. Yes, these two activities are in opposite extremes in the activity scale. One requires you to stay stationary and lets your eyes do the roving, while the other drives you out of comforts of your couch and gets your body moving from point A to point B, on to point C, and so on. This book bridges that gap between seemingly disparate activities, both of which make my life full and interesting.

Another thing that these two activities have in common is how they facilitate learning. Both expand the mind, open the eyes, and enlarge the soul. Reading transports me to different dimensions, brings me to awareness of my environment, of art, science, cultures, life, love, and lore. In like manner, travel exposes me to diverse cultures, introduces my palette to a gamut of flavors, opens me up to a multitude of experiences, and orients me to infinite possibilities.

The infinite possibilities keep me reaching for my Lonely Planet. I leaf through its pages and let it whet my wanderlust and feed my imagination. It weaves text and images to fill my heart with longing, my feet with the itching desire to leave the city and go as far as I can, and my mind with plans of traveling to places I have yet to visit like Batanes, Siargao, Camiguin, Dumaguete, and the rest of our 7,100 islands.

In the city, the concrete walls, halls, and malls confine me in an oppressive tangle of must-dos, must-haves, must-buys, must-calls, must-meets, and must-submit-budget-report-by-Friday-or-else-I-die. All these I am obliged to do for urban survival and career enhancement.

Lonely Planet's 504 pages tell me of places I must see, cuisine I must try, cultures I must encounter, and festivals I must experience not because they are do-or-die obligations. But more like do-and-live-life-to-the-fullest.

I Flipped through E L James's Fifty Shades Trilogy and (I'm Ashamed to Admit it but) I Liked It

2013-01-11T11:56:00.001-08:00

My copy:

Box Set of 3 Trade Paperback
ISBN: 978-0-345-80404-4

Read: August 25, 2012

Fifty Shades of Grey - 514

Fifty Shades Darker - 532

Fifty Shades Freed - 579

Total Pages: 1,625 pages! Wow! Yeay me!

There is a category of books called "Books You Have to Read Just to Understand What the Hype Is All About." This is one of them.

For me, this category of books I was suckered to read out of social pressure include the Da Vinci Code (sucked) and Twilight (I have no strong feelings for this book-neither hated, nor loved it). In other words, I usually end up regretting the waste of precious reading time for books from this category.

Now this--Fifty Shades of Grey. I felt pretty sure I wouldn't like it. First, it's romance. And I'm not overly fond of them. Seeing shelves of Nora Roberts, Nicholas Sparks, and Jude Deveraux usually makes me turn a different direction. I'm not a book snob--I've just been out of the dating slash seeking Mr. Right scene for more than a decade that I can no longer relate to boy meets girl stories. Second, people said the writing is abominable. Third, it is a fan fiction byproduct (which is usually worse than the inspiration) of Twilight.

And then the book starts with the paragraph about the wayward hair of the character in a voice that sounds whiny and immature. That uneasy feeling of regret (I bought the boxed set!) set in.

But I gave it a chance and read on. I don't know at which point the tide changed, but soon I was enjoying it. I mean really enjoying it. No, not (just) because of the dirty parts, but because of the fantasy that is Mr. Christian Grey. Yes, fantasy. Nobody on earth could be that rich, good-looking, and perfect! Well, perfect except for having a really messed up sexual history. The other thing that would classify this as fantasy is the notion that a woman can so quickly and easily change a man--he started changing almost immediately after meeting her. Acting differently and doing things he's never done before, like staying the night with a woman.

N.B. I started this post some months back and have forgotten all about it. And tonight, as I was about to write a new post, I discovered this draft. I am trying to bring myself back to the moment when I still had feelings for Mr. Grey, but my poor memory and short attention span have made me move on. And so, I'm struggling to complete this post.

Anyway, let's get this over and done with.

So what I can remember is this--I enjoyed reading it. I have not been reading much this past couple of years. And 2012 was absolutely dismal, embarrassing for somebody who has founded a book club. I have finished none of the books that we discussed last year. Either I could not attend the meeting or I just could not finish the book. But this trilogy--I consumed it voraciously and quickly. It was the first time for a long time that I felt that grip, that hold a book has to make you itchy and antsy to drop whatever it is you're doing so you can get back to the book. And I completed the trilogy! It is embarrassing to admit that it took a trashy book to wake me up from my reading doldrums.

So, I'm not going to review the book anymore. There are millions of reviews online. Besides, the feeling's gone. I'm over Christian.

I'll just post my comment in one of threads. But first, a background for you to understand the following excerpt. I have never heard of 50 Shades until it was suggested in our book club's Facebook group page. Yes, I was living under some kind of rock called home office, where there are no water coolers to gather round as employees talk about the latest phenomenon. Anyway, it was a read-along, meaning we would read the book on our own, but we should follow a certain schedule. We give our reactions online. And after all that was over, we met for a dinner discussion. Now, here is my post:

"I really enjoyed the FSoG reading experience. The poll to select a book and the ridiculous, exasperating result that against Russian classics, we chose the modern day cheese. The community reading aspect of it. The read-along. The online discussions that went beyond the merits and demerits of the book, and got us even to share intimate tidbits. The dinner discussion when everybody came in grey outfits. The fantastic giveaways. The post-discussion lamentations. And now, the planned movie watching activity. Fabulous experience that got me out of my reading rut, albeit temporarily. It's what book clubs are about. And how the book reading future is not just about technology, not just about high tech, but also about high touch. Loved it.

And really, even if the writing is crappy and the dialogue ridiculous, I have great respect for writers who stand out enough to sell in blockbuster numbers. They keep the industry alive and get non-readers to read.

On the personal level, I am not a romance reader and it surprised (and annoyed) me how much I enjoyed reading it that I could hardly wait for the next chapter, the next book. And as a teacher who has waded through gazillions of student papers that made my eyes droop at the first paragraph, I can recognize that this ability to make the reader keep on reading is a learned skill as well as some kind of voodoo magic gift. Plus the writer being in touch with, or having the same secret desires as her readers.

I've been wondering what made this book so appealing to women, specifically British housewives--and it reminded me of a certain research about why women loved watching soap; they watched soap because it's an escape from the all-so-real reality of their lives--of career work and housework. It's their pocket of me-time. And it's their middle finger to a world that wears them out and robs them of their identities and burdens them with responsibilities. It's actually a feminist act of asserting themselves. I will not go as far as say that FSoG is feminist, but I think the reason why it appealed to women is specifically because a lot of women have bought into this feminist notion. A lot of women are in charge almost all the time--at work and at home, and maybe in bed. And it can get pretty tiring to be always in control. And it has become a fantasy to let somebody else take over and have his wicked way with us. To just sit back and relax and let somebody do all the work.

And Christian Grey is hot!"

What's missing in above is how, like my book club friends, enjoyed the witty email exchange between Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele.

In summary. Yes, believe all those reviews that say it's crap. It is crap. But it is very enjoyable crap.

Run to MIBF! Because there is no such thing as too many books!

2011-09-11T10:24:00.000-07:00

You, book nut, you, yes, you, you don't really need any convincing to go to MIBF 2011, right?

But just in case, you're still vacillating, here's my pitch:

This week, skip the caramel machiato and use that money to buy a book. Or two. Or more! What the hey, go splurge on books. You'll find huge discounts and an ocean of book choices at MIBF.

So that week after next, when you have money again to hang out at Starbucks, you can be reading (or pretending to read) a nice-looking trade paperback that will not just make you smarter but also make you look smarter while you're sipping that caramel machiato.

And I'm not just making you go so you can watch me speak about how you can start a book club at the first ever Filipino Reader Conference, okay? I mean I need the moral support and all, but really, just come.

And buy a lot of books! Because there is no such thing as too many books.

ReaderCon Filipino Friday Week 3

2011-08-25T20:15:00.000-07:00

Shucks! I guess I missed Week 2. Anyway, it's time for another:This week's discussion starter:

How hard or easy is it to be a book lover in the Philippines? What are some of your frustrations as a Filipino reader? And what are the positive aspects of being a reader in the Philippines?

My reply:

So yesterday, I was at Fullybooked in Greenbelt, looking for a copy of Woman in Black by Susan Hill, this month's book for our book club, Flips Flipping Pages. The customer service guy said in an accent I can't quite place in a look that tells you it's bad news, "We only have 2 copies--one is at Eastwood and one is at Marquee.

I tried to be a diva and asked if they could send the Eastwood copy to Greenbelt. (They once did that for me at Powerbooks; they sent a copy of a book from Greenbelt to Glorietta, and I felt like a really special customer.) The nice guy made a call to Eastwood, after which, the same bad-news expression appeared on his face. Somebody has bought the copy; probably a book club mate of mine. He said he could not contact Marquee, and I figured Pampanga was way too far for me to drive for a book.

Fully Booked can order it for me and it will get to me in 8 weeks. Powerbooks can give it to me sooner--5 to 6 weeks.

Both are not workable options. Our book club will meet in 4 weeks.

So, that's what's frustrating about being a book lover in the Philippines. The books are published so far away. They take too long to get here. And the bookstores only carry very few (6 or so) pieces of every SKU for books. Unless the book is Twilight, Harry Potter, or some other huge hit.

About Philippine published books, my issues are:

- uninteresting book covers (I do judge the book by its cover, among other factors.)

- poor quality paper

- rarely go on discount; the whole bookstore could be giving away books at 50% off, while the local books, if they are on sale at all, would only go for as low as 5% discount.

The positive aspects of being a Filipino reader is that English books are readily available. I lived in Vietnam for a few months, and that's when I appreciated Philippine bookstores.

The other positive aspect to living in the Philippines: slow, heavy traffic, which gives you time to read while waiting for the red light. :)

I Flip Pages. Bow.

2011-08-13T21:14:00.000-07:00

I can't believe how extended this blogging drought has been. I do expect to come back to blogging eventually, but for now, being engaged in a career of words--of reading, writing, editing--makes flipping pages and blogging about it seem like work, rather than fun.

But anyway, I will come back here one blog at a time. And I'm glad there is this thing, this event that pushed me to blog today.

The first Filipino Reader Conference!

Readers of the Philippines unite and speak up on September 14, 2001, Wednesday, 1 to 6 PM.

ReaderCon Filipino brings together Pinoy book enthusiasts in a grand meet-up at The Manila International Book Fair at the SMX Mall of Asia Meeting Room 2. If you want to tell publishers and book purveyors what books you want to see more of, if you just want to be surrounded by books and book lovers, if you want to take your book reading experience to a

higher level, come join us!

To warm all of us up as we build up excitement for the event, there will be memes for readers, attending the conference or not, to participate in. The first one asks us to introduce ourselves as readers. So here's mine.

I am Gege C. Sugue, also known as islandhopper in www.shelfari.com, a site for people who love books so much they have to have a website to post their most recent reads, book purchases, and even the books we lust for. Shelfari is also the site where I met others like me who have an inordinate, illogical, uncontrollable love for books. Pinoy book lovers meet at the forum of the group called Flips Flipping Pages (FFP).

When I started FFP back in 2007, I was just trying to find people to chat with about books during my insomnia hours. I never expected that that group would grow in numbers. We now have 1,427 online members. About a hundred of them actively participate in the online discussions. Who knows how many lurkers there are. A few dozens actually meet face to face during monthly book discussions.

Our monthly book discussions show how diverse we are as readers. So every month, I find myself reading different genres. Without the group forcing me to expand my literary comfort zones, I'd probably stick to novels by my favorite authors Jose Saramago and Margaret Atwood. I'd probably never try sci-fi. I would steer clear of fantasy. And I would never ever read a science book just for fun. But being part of a book club introduces you to genres and authors you would not normally read.

But enough about my book club, which you can check out here.

Lately, I have been buying pages more than I flip them. This has caused major storage (and walking without peril) issues at home. But I do try. I have challenged myself to read 80 books this year. I am way behind, but I will not give up trying. I have 4 1/2 months left.

Aside from the authors above, I also love Gabriel Garcia Marquez and have come to love Haruki Murakami, but really there are still so many authors I have not tried, nor read enough of, so it would be difficult to come up with a definitive list of favorites. I like books that shock me, make me laugh out loud, bawl out in tears, gasp audibly, and stay awake at night just thinking about it. I also read a lot of non-fiction books to help me in my career as trainer slash trainer slash writer. My various interests--art, architecture, home decorating, food, travel, crafts, fashion, photography--are reflected on my bookshelves.

I am a rabid collector of books--I collect biographies, coffee table books, chronicle books, cookbooks! I have a growing collection of The Little Prince in various languages and formats.

I also collect bookmarks. I guess you can imagine now what I meant about storage problems.

Anyway, take a look at the reviews on this blog to have a better idea of my reading habits, preferences, and aversions.

See you at the ReaderCon!

I Am Not Flipping Pages

2011-05-11T06:49:00.000-07:00

Sigh.

Image stolen from: http://www.iyecon.com/?p=961

9th Hour

2011-04-08T14:04:00.001-07:00

So, let's face it. I'm not a power reader.

8 hours down. I've only finished one book. One that is filled with pictures.

And my second book has terribly small font.

And I'm going 3 pages per hour.

But I have:

gone to the washroom 3 times

fixed a cold cut platter that looked at first like it was enough to feed a small army, but actually didn't last very long

taken 158 photos,

handled the hourly book draw using random.org and distributed 7 prizes,

doodled a wedding cake,

and blogged 1.92 posts.

In the meantime, there are 10 of us left here at Libreria:

4 are sleeping

1 is playing Citiville

1 is actually reading, gasping at shocking developments at Sweet Valley High,

4 are doing a drink-a-thon and talking loudly like drunk people do

and 1 is revealing all this in this blog, and wondering at 5:46 AM about where to go for breakfast and how long I could last not taking a shower.

And I haven't slept a wink.

Watch out for the next update. XOXO

Sweeping Spider Webs

2011-04-08T10:03:00.000-07:00

Spider web on my blog. Sweeping them aside. Surprise, it's still here!

And I'm back here because I'm in the FFP 24-Hour Readathon at Libreria, the greatest bookstore in the universe. And I'm doing everything other than actually read. So, I'm blogging.

This readathon is semi-connected to the Dewey 24-hour readathon. We're just doing ours 23 hours ahead to accommodate the Philippine time zone.

Will update more later. I have to start pretending to read. ;)

Image stolen from : http://photohome.com/pictures/animal-pictures/wildlife/spider-web-1a.jpg

Mailbox Monday : Ogling a Fashion Icon

2011-02-28T16:52:00.000-08:00

Marcia started Mailbox Monday a long time ago. She has since turned over its hosting to other hosts. This month's host is Library of Clean Reads. It's a good thing the book I'll feature in this post is wholesome and is "free of explicit sex, profanity, graphic violence and paranormal themes." ;)

"Mailbox Monday is a gathering place for readers to share the books that came into their house last week and explore great book blogs. Warning: Mailbox Monday can lead to envy, toppling TBR piles, and humongous wish lists."

Last week's mailbox delight did inspire my envy and longing when I saw it posted for sale or mooching by my current favorite book pusher, Andy B.

I mooched this for more than the usual one point for local mailing, but it was well worth it. It's a gorgeous book that I will be scanning every so often when I'm down and in need of visual pleasure. Jacqueline Kennedy: The White House Years showcases the gowns, dresses, and suits Jacqueline Kennedy wore while JFK was President.

Photos of individual pieces are juxtaposed with photos of the events when the pieces were worn. The former show the detail of the dresses, and the latter give context and story to the fashion.

It's a bit text heavy for me, because I'd like to just look at a lot more photos. But then again, when I have the time, I might be interested to read through the different essays that combine thoughts on fashion, style, politics, and personal history.

Jacqueline Kennedy is such a style icon that to admire her fashion seems so cliche. But when you go through this book, cliches will be the last thing on your mind. She was an original, a gem that no one can come close to replacing as the ultimate paragon of style. Her exterior style bespoke of the woman beneath the clothes -- elegant and intelligent. Every piece is gasp-inspiring, making me wish I lived in that era well before grunge was ever invented. My heart ached looking at all those gorgeous dresses.

Thank you, Andy B. for mailing this book to me. It was so well packed, I almost kept the books in the plastic wrap, as I sometimes do with my books. But the eagerness to see the photos inside the book won out.

Thank you, too, for the freebie!

By Manila standards, I'm writing this post a day late, but it's still Monday in some part of the world, so I still make the cut.

Seeing Double

2011-02-21T21:43:00.001-08:00

The memory is the first to go.

That is based on my experience. That's why things like this happen.

During my bookshelf spring cleaning, I discovered I had two copies of Paul Auster's book, The New York Trilogy. And I remember on more than one recent occasion staring at a copy of this book in some bookstore and thinking to myself, I'll buy that next time. Not knowing that two of its ilk lie dormant, unread, and largely ignored, gathering dust, occupying prime prime realty space in my very limited bookshelves.

And look at the dates of purchase. Just one month apart. Short term memory malfunction.

And this is not the first time it has happened.

This kind of mistake only happens to books. I don't think that will happen to clothes, shoes, bags. Because I buy them less frequently and will not likely forget a purchase.

We can chalk that up to old age. Some may call that a desperate, rabid greed for books. I'd like to think I'm compensating dead trees, that they have not died for naught. And rescuing Paul Auster's reputation by not allowing his books to linger in the discount bins.

Things like this are what keep my Bookmooch inventory alive.

I Flipped through John Fowles's Mantissa

2011-02-17T21:55:00.000-08:00

F is for Fowles.

Backlog from 2010's A to Z Challenge

My copy:

Trade Paperback
ISBN: 0316290270

Read: April 1, 2010

195 pages

I pulled out this book from my TBB (To be Blogged) pile and stared at it perplexed, trying to retrieve from the faulty data base called my mind a memory of what this book is all about. So far removed is its story from my reality, that I did not connect enough with it to make it memorable.

But as I flipped through the pages trying to remember, I wondered to myself how I could have forgotten. This is the one of the strangest, most fantastic stories I've ever read. Not so much a story, but glimpses of the life of a writer -- the secret life of a frustrated, sick, maybe starving, maybe even sex-starved writer. And his muse.

A muse who is not your typical luminous feminine figure floating just above your head, dressed in a diaphanous Grecian gown demurely whispering prose suggestions, coaxing you out of writer's block.

No, this is a muse who barges into a room wearing a skimpy nurse's uniform ready for sexual cosplay, flirts, cockteases, insults, and fights. A muse who gets jealous. A muse who complains about being used, abused, and taken for granted. In her words:

"Her voice rises. Never a thought for her as a person, only for what can be got out of her. Never a moment's consideration for her emotions. Never enough imagination to realize that she may be secretly dying for a little tenderness and sympathy, that she's also a woman and can't help it if certain combinations of circumstance and mood do make her need the services of a male body in an entirely natural female way..."

The story is narrated by Miles Green, an author whose relationship with her muse can be described in present day phraseology as, "it's complicated." His muse, aside from being his muse, is also his lover, his sex slave, his doctor, his tormentor, his conscience, and many other things. My own memory is foggy as I blog about the book 2 months away from the anniversary of reading it, so I'll let Amazon summarize it for me:

"Most of the book is dialogue between Miles and Erato as he alternately romances and berates his muse, the essence of his creativity, and is repaid in kind. It's an animated metaphor for the process of writing, and many times the characters seem to know they are merely characters in a book. It begins in a hospital where Miles has just recovered, having lost his memory through some accident, but that scenario quickly ends as Erato takes on numerous personalities and attitudes in her interaction with Miles."

John Fowles writes with copious wit, intelligence, and sardonic humor. He seems like the kind of person you'd like to invite to dinner, and every minute will be filled with fascinating, clever banter. You don't get all his jokes, but you know they're funny.

It's not the kind of book you read while waiting for your turn in the bank. Not unless it's okay for you to endure the stares of people as you snicker, or even laugh out loud. The repartee between author and muse is extremely entertaining.

The downside is that there is a minimum IQ requirement for reading this book described by the front cover blurb as, "clever and wickedly funny." And mine falls slightly below the quota. There were spots where the literary allusions were all lost to me. But still, I did enjoy the read even though half of the time, I wasn't sure what he and his muse were talking about.

The book starts with this killer of a first sentence:

"It was conscious of a luminous and infinite haze, as if it were floating, godlike, alpha and omega, over a sea of vapor and looking down then less happily after an interval of obscure duration, or murmured sounds and peripheral shadows, which reduced the impression of boundless space and empire to something much more contracted and unaccommodating."And I knew right away, this book would require my complete attention and the use of more brain cells I'm used to using.

And though this is fiction so fantabulous, and the story supposedly happens only inside the narrator's schizophrenic head, I wonder how much of this is autobiographical. For how else could Fowles have come up with such wicked imaginings if he didn't enjoy the same kind of ever so slightly demented relationship with his own muse?

I highly recommend this book to writers. Though I said this story is so far removed from mine, I can relate to the frustration of writer's block so bad you go a bit crazy. At the very least, you'll be immensely entertained, albeit slightly disturbed or disgusted depending on your ability to handle prurience.

So, it's 2011. And My Reading Challenges are:

2011-02-14T04:24:00.000-08:00

to read 80 books in total, averaging 250 pages per book - That's to prevent me from cheating all the time with picture books;
to read 26 authors I have not read before, with surnames from Z to A in that order;
to read at least 4 classics;
to read all assigned books for our book club discussions.

I'll be updating my progress in shelfari here.

I have no book buying restrictions. But I'm bracing for a no book buying year in 2012, when they say the world would end.

And I'll still try to have some kind of life outside books.

My A to Z Adventure - 2010, and a Backward Run for 2011

2011-02-14T02:44:00.000-08:00

I don't know what came over me. I never figured myself to be a masochist. In fact, I fancy myself to be a lazy, underachieving, pleasure-loving creature of comfort, a lollygagging, navel-gazing lady of leisure, a spa-inhabiting sloth.

But last year, I decided to read 26 new authors; by new I mean I have not read them before. I did this to make a substantial dent on my TBR. To assuage my book-acquisition guilt. To finally read Theroux.

And if that was not hard enough, the authors' surnames had to start with the letters A to Z.

And for somebody who is so impulsive, so non-linear (I can't even click on my Farmville plots in order), the hardest part was reading them sequentially from A to Z.

I didn't do it alone. Some silly, sick, and probably sexlifeless people did it with me through a shelfari group page. These wonderful, over-achieveing people were probably the only reason I succeeded in completing the challenge. How embarrassing it would have been to have started a challenge that I would fail. What a good motivator shame is.

So, through this stupendously difficult challenge, I met:

Alvarez, Julia
Byatt, A.S.
Chabon, Michael
Roald Dahl
Enright, Anne
Fowles, John
Gaiman, Neil
Hoffman, Alice
Iyer, Pico

Jose, Sionil

Kerouac, Johnv
Le Guin, Ursula
Miller, Sue
Naipaul, V.S.

Oe, Kenzaburo

Picoult, Jodi
Quigley, Sarah
Rushdie, Salman
Sebold, Alice

Theroux, Paul
Updike, John
Vonnegut, Kurt
Weldon, Fay
Xiaolong, Qui
Yamanaka, Lois-Ann
Zola, Emile

And my reading life was made so much richer.

Insert fireworks here! I did it! I did it! This sloth did it!

As for blogging reviews, I only got as far as letter E, but that was not a requirement of the challenge, anyway. So, there! Stop looking at me as if I'm a failure!

Here's the Leaning Tower of Reviewable Books giving me something else to be guilty about, guilt being one of the inspiration behind this challenge. But I'm a recovering Catholic; I know how it was to deal with guilt. And I'm ignoring this one by starting on another challenge for 2011.

This time, I'm going backward. If you care to follow my Z to A adventure, track me here: http://www.shelfari.com/groups/48066/discussions/311471/Islandhoppers-2011-Z-to-A-

Hey you might even be silly/ masochistic/ demented/ jobless enough to join me. I promise you it won't always be fun, and there'll be times when you'll hate yourself for starting this, and you'll hate me for getting you into this. But you'll never hate reading and the discovery of new authors. And you're going to love the feeling of having succeeded in the A to Z challenge.

What Ever Happened to My 2010 Reading Plan?

2011-02-14T01:55:00.000-08:00

Where did January go?

It's midway through February. So why am I still giving a report of my 2010 reading achievements. Because this blog is not the boss of me, and I write when I want to write, okay? *said assertively with arms crossed, eyebrows knitted together, mouth puckered in a pout."

I considered skipping this, but I don't think I can live with myself not tying up loose ends.

If you were already reading this blog at the start of last year, you may have read about my 10 point-reading plan for 2010.

I challenged myself to:

read a total of 70 books this year
complete the A to Z challenge
read at least 6 classics, guided by Italo Calvino's Why Read the Classics
read all FFP book discussion assignments
read at least 2 books on writing (Margaret Atwood's, Stephen King's, etc.)
read at least 5 travel/ travel writing books
finally read 100 Years of Solitude
read at least 3 biographies
blog at least 50 posts here, and
read the bible slowly, more deeply studying it book by book

So, how did I do? I:

read a total of 70 books this year - check
completed the A to Z challenge - check
did not read at least 6 classics, guided by Italo Calvino's Why Read the Classics - fail
read all FFP book discussion assignments - check, except for Carrie, which was our inspiration for our Bloody Prom Christmas party, but we didn't have to read that.
did not read at least 2 books on writing (Margaret Atwood's, Stephen King's, etc.) - fail; got to read Stephen King's On Writing January 2011.
read at least 5 travel/ travel writing books - check, but this was unintentional, it turns out I got to read travel related books as listed below, and Peter Mayle's Chasing Cezanne, though it was fiction, had me chasing Chezanne all over France and England, so that qualifies. So check!
did not finally read 100 Years of Solitude - epic fail; i did not even come near the book.
read at least 3 biographies - check
did not blog at least 50 posts here - fail; I eked out 36.
read the bible slowly (too slowly), BUT NOT deeply studying it book by book and not frequently. - fail

What would classify as travel reads for item 6:

My Life in France by Julia Child

Chasing Cezanne by Peter Mayle

Falling Off the Map by Pico Iyer

Billy Bryson's African Diary by Bill Bryson

On the Road by Jack Kerouac

Biographies:

My Life in France by Julia Child

On the Road by Jack Kerouac

The Complete Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi

Books from the Museum

2011-02-03T05:16:00.000-08:00

One weekday in January, my friend Raymund and I met for a post-holiday lunch at Felix in Greenbelt 5. Dessert followed at Kaffe Ti Amo.

We had time to burn that lazy afternoon, so we decided to pop in at the Ayala Museum, where they were having an exhibit of portraits by Onib Olmedo, one of my favorite artists.

This post goes to show that a bookaholic need not go inside a bookstore to get some books. Here's my stash.

While I'm still saving up for an Onib, I have this book to give me eye candy. Though this book is mainly a catalog of the works displayed in the exhibit, it also paints a portrait of the artist as depicted by his wife and two daughters. I was elated looking at his works; his paintings are not pretty, but they are full of personality. It's sad that the artist is no longer alive to create more pieces.

Fernando Zobel's painting The Kite serves as cover art and inspiration to this children's book written by Carla M. Pacis and illustrated by Robert Alejandro. I enjoyed the read and the art.

I always get one or two bookmarks whenever I drop by the Ayala Museum gift shop. This time I got three. The design with a lady and her shawl is from a painting by Juan Luna. And the hat in the picture is from a 19th century collection of Philippine fashion. I actually bought the bookmark at the upper left thinking it was a gift tag. Turns out it was a cute magnetic bookmark that will go to my growing bookmark collection.

Museum. Books. Bookmarks. Love.

Searching for Rhyme

2011-02-02T01:25:00.000-08:00

February is poetry month for the Flippers.

On February 12, we will discuss Pablo Neruda's Cien Sonetos de Amor (One Hundred Sonnets of Love). I'm disappointed that I'm going to miss this because of an important family affair. Not because I like poetry, but because I need to know more about it. I need something like a poetry appreciation course. Because I'm clueless.

Poems baffle me. I don't know how to tell a good one from a bad one.

The picture shows my paltry poetry collection, a teeny weeny fraction of my ginourmous collection of books.

I was staring at it this afternoon, trying to figure out where to start -- Rilke? Rosetti? Garcia Villa? I have no idea. Eenie, meenie, miny, moe.

Anyway, join us in our online discussion. It's not just about Neruda. It's about poetry in general. It's for those who love, hate, get, don't get, read, don't read poetry.

I Flipped the Pages of Nick Joaquin’s Candido’s Apocalypse

2011-01-31T07:22:00.000-08:00

Borrowed copy:

Mass Market Paperback with Newsprint Pages
ISBN: 978-971-27-24169

Read: January 2011

83 pages

Groovy.

I was born in the late 60s, which means that I was too young to have truly lived the psychedelia that was the 70s. Sideburns, combos (live bands), and all those mind altering drugs. This book gives me a sneak peek at those groovy years I missed out on.

What I found most amusing was what was then considered “society.” Now, we say posh or “sosyal.” Back then, it was society for parents to name their male kids Willie, Boy, or Rene and their girls Susie, Margie, or Tess as opposed to picking saintly names from calendars.

Bobby, the name of the book's main character, was also considered a society name. Bobby Heredia is a teenager. The adults in this book seem to think that the whole teenage concept is a fairly newfangled thing. And Bobby's generation of teenagers is a generation more troubled, more complicated, more jaded.

The teenagers of the 70s were as concerned about being cool as today’s teens. To be graded uncool back then would be called “overacting” or “OA.” Like “scooters were fun, but motorcycles were overacting, especially if you dressed up for it in goggles and helmet and black leather jacket.” “Pants should be tight, but skintight pants were overacting.” Back then, it was cool to use street corner language like “diahe” and “tepok,” and it was overacting to use American idioms like “get lost” or “dig.” Also considered overacting were wearing red, drinking scotch on the rocks, dancing the twist, going to Baguio in summer, and drag-racing on Dewey. And Pompoy Morel, Bobby's enemy, exemplified all that was overacting.

Bobby hates everything that is overacting. He scorns hypocrisy, and as he starts looking for what is true and honest among all the fake people around him, he develops the ability to see beyond people’s layers, beneath their pretenses. First, he starts seeing people stripped off of their clothes, revealing all the ugly, filthy things they hide. Maybe I'm being obtuse because I don't want to spoil it for you. But what I'm saying is that he starts seeing naked people. And not in a fun way. Then, he starts seeing even deeper inside to their bare bones.

This magical ability, all that he sees, trouble him and cause him to run away from home and to act strangely and violently, especially towards Pompoy Morel. Eventually, he realizes how judgmental and self righteous he has been. He learns the lessons that help him to be more forgiving, more accepting. But I'm revealing too much now.

I found the ending and its explanation of the message a bit too spoon-fed. Though it, at least, confirms that I got the story and its message, I wish it had left more space for the readers to interpret the story differently.

Nick Joaquin is obviously a great, a gifted writer. But I'm not yet in love with him, even though I feel the pressure to be reverent of a National Artist. From what I've read so far (Woman with Two Navels, read ages ago, and this) I am intrigued to discover more.

Candido’s Apocalypse was first published in 1972 as part of Tropical Gothic, a copy of which is yellowing in my shelf. This book has convinced me to include Tropical Gothic in my 2011 TBR.

My Best Read for 2010

2011-01-23T19:25:00.001-08:00

And my favorite read for 2010 is (drummmmrrrrrrooooooollll) Suzanne Collins's The Hunger Games Trilogy.

Though I said in my previous post that my choice is somewhat predictable, it actually came as a surprise to me that this emerged as my best read for the year.

First off, I am not particularly fond of the YA genre. I don't dislike it, but sometimes, YA makes me feel old, mocking me, reminding me how the young adult experience is so far removed from my current midlife status. It makes me a little sad that it seems ages since I came of age. So, I usually end up reading stories that resonate more with the soccer mom within me. Secondly, I don't like war themes. I am of the school of thought of the 1980s era philosopher Boy George who averred that war is stupid. It is.

So it is surprising that this is my choice.

I also didn't want to choose this because it was such a commercial hit, and I would have preferred to impress others with something more esoteric so I would seem deep and offbeat. But, when I looked at my list of reads, the trilogy really was the one that made the biggest impact on me.

Why?

This was my review of the trilogy, which would explain what the book made me feel. But several months after reading the books, I saw something different in my reading experience that propelled the set to my number one spot. It really goes beyond the book itself, beyond whether the book is likable or not, well written or not.

Sometime last year, I spoke at a digital publishing conference, Future of the Book. There, I shared my online book club experience, and I talked about how the usual solitary activity of reading has been transformed by digitalization into a shared reading experience, one that involved multiple media and an all-star cast of readers, one that transported the reader out of the armchair into a more social, kinetic, sensory milieu. And my experience with the trilogy perfectly illustrates that phenomenon.

The experience started with Hunger Games, the first of the series. Discussion boards were abuzz with readers' reactions to the book. It was violent. It was exciting. It was incredible. A breath-stopping page-turner. And people could not wait for the sequel. I succumbed to the social pressure, so I borrowed my niece's copy and read it. And I was suckered like everybody else. Suzanne Collins is a skilled writer who can make you flip pages furiously.

Then, our book club discussed the book. A lot of movies and comedy shows parody book club meetings as events where boring, bored, lonely housewives sit in a sea of chintz as they sip hot tea and eat soggy cucumber sandwiches. Our book club is so not like that.

The Hunger Games discussion was preceded by a paintball fight. I didn't join because I hate wearing those uniforms awash with other people's sweat, but I know that the other Flippers had tons of sweaty fun and were energized for the discussion. Flipper and book blogger Peter (rhyming) lead the discussion at R.O.X. at Bonifacio High Street. Not your usual reading group venue. The discussion was lively, and the quiz game and the prizes by Scholastic made it even more exciting.

Can you see what I mean about turning reading into a shared event?

It didn't end there. In August, Scholastic launched the last book of the series, Mockingjay, in an event that included Live Action Role Playing (LARP) games and all the usual product launch gimmicks -- themed cocktails, tattoo booths, a photo wall. Plus the not so usual -- some bloodshed. Scholastic invited Flips Flipping Pages to participate in the discussion, and I was so thrilled to see our logo co-branded in the promotional tarpaulin. And even though at that time I had not yet read Catching Fire and Mockingjay, I thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

Not content with all that, our book club also conducted an unofficial discussion on the trilogy. I forced myself to read books two and three in 2 days, so that I could participate.

A lot of people were disappointed with Mockingjay. And I definitely agree with most of their arguments about why it sucked. Like some of the haters, I also was not happy about how much time Katniss spent sleeping, hiding in closets, and being a lame prop. But, because I read the two books as if they're one, book two's exciting parts made up for book three's more lethargic segments. Plus, I particularly enjoyed the last parts of Mockingjay when the ragtag team of warriors stormed the Capitol. I thought that was packed with excitement that created stunning cinematography in the movie in my mind. Those parts compensated for the book's bad parts.

The part I remember best was when little parachutes fell from the skies; this segment left a vivid imprint in my highly charged imagination. It was also the part I hated the most because it involved the death of a character I didn't want to die.

I finished the book, breathless and emotionally drained. Because of the many negative reactions to Mockingjay, I first could not decide if I liked the book or not. But as I drove to the discussion and processed my shock, anger, and imagined loss, I decided that I really liked the read.

Flipper Jan Ruiz led the discussion by asking thought provoking questions and dazzling us with fabulous slide transitions. And even after the live discussion, she carried the discussion online, so that those who were absent could participate.

Fast forward to last weekend. I finally bought my own boxed set of the trilogy a few hours before our discussion of our Best and Worst reads of 2010. National Book Store even gave me a leather bookmark as a freebie. And I shared with the 35 or so readers present why the Hunger Games trilogy was 2010's best read. That rounds up my Hunger Games experience.

Anyway, my point for all of the above is that reading Hunger Games went beyond just reading the book. It was an experience that lasted for months and involved social interaction, a reading experience I would remember for a long time.

My last point. I only had a minute to share my best book choice, so I only focused on the book's commercial success. I said that it pleases me when authors earn rock star pay for their efforts to keep the reading industry alive and assure us that there will always be new generations of avid readers. It's true. It's utterly unfair when writers are starving and only those with movie star looks and athletic talent can rake in the millions. So, when authors break through and get richly rewarded for their dedication to their craft, I want to cheer them on.

Kudos to Scholastic for hyping this book, for competing with all the media noise dominated by soda brands and skin whitening products, and promoting books so that more people would read. Kudos to Suzanne Collins for writing with the readers in mind while still staying true to her vision for the book. And kudos to readers, whether or not they liked the Hunger Games trilogy, for preserving the wonderful art, sport, and passion that is reading.

2010's Best

2011-01-20T01:25:00.000-08:00

One of the traditions that our book club, Flips Flipping Pages, has developed is to start the year sharing with each other our best and worst reads of the previous year.

For this bunch of book addicts, this provides yet another excuse to go out there and buy more books. "This was Blooey's/Honey's/Mich's favorite read last year; I've got to have it too."

On the other hand, knowing other people's worst reads is a good way to steer clear of the duds, no matter how cheap they're selling them in Booksale. And if we already have the duds in our possession, we can at least take those items from our towering TBRs and transfer them to our bookmooch inventory.

But then again, the group is so diverse that one person's dud could be some other person's all time favorite. Brave New World, anyone?

We will meet and discuss our best and worst this Saturday, January 22, at the best bookstore in the planet, Libreria at Cubao X. So, the past few days I've been pressuring myself to go through the list of books that I read in 2010 and make my choices.

My choice for worst book was easy. I knew that right after I read the book's last few pages.

Choosing the best was a lot tougher. Sometimes, it's a tough choice because I have to choose among top faves, books I really fell in love with. But this year, it was tough because nothing stood out and screamed 2010's finest. Don't ask me to explain why that is. It just is.

I first made a shortlist. Though I have already chosen my best read for 2010, I will only share with you my shortlist for now.

I tried not to over think my choices; I went through my list of 71 and quickly chose 10 to 12 books that I liked. I did not include re-reads, e.g. Carlos Ruiz Zafon's The Shadow of the Wind, which I already included in 2008's top ten. So, here they are, in order of reading chronology, my best reads for 2010.

The Passion by Jeanette Winterson
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon
The Hunger Games Trilogy by Suzanne Collins
Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman
Blackbird House by Alice Hoffman
My Life in France by Julia Child
Girl in Hyacinth Blue by Susan Vreeland
Falling Off the Map by Pico Iyer
The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett
Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie
Blu's Hanging by Lois-Ann Yamanaka
The Complete Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi

I am not 100% confident that this is my final short list, but hey, this is not a life and death choice, and once I (if I ever do) work on the backlog of my reviews, maybe I'll discover I've missed out on one and I'll change my mind.

Can you guess my bestest read for 2010? It's actually quite predictable. As usual, I ended up choosing not the best written, not the most well loved by others, but the one that I connected to best on a personal level. I'm not keeping you in suspense because it's actually a predictable choice. But I'm giving myself a couple of days to keep it under wraps in case I change my mind.

What are your best and worst reads of 2010?

I Flipped through Alice Sebold's Lovely Bones

2011-01-19T18:46:00.000-08:00

My copy:

Trade Paperback
ISBN: 0316168815

Read: November 23, 2010

328 pages

Book S for the A to Z challenge

I read this book for last year's A to Z Challenge. There were a number of S authors on my TBR, but I chose this because I've read some pretty good things about it. Plus there's a movie that I could watch right after reading the book. Now, I think I'll wait a while before I watch that film, to give me time to forget the book and the unpleasant memory it left behind.

Forgetting the book might be hard to do, though, because I've just selected it as my worst read for 2010.

The book begins with incredible promise.

"My name was Salmon, like the fish; first name, Susie. I was fourteen when I was murdered..."

Whoa! Wait a minute, murdered? What a hook. Wapow! An entry that hits you on the face. It makes you do a double turn. The dead narrating from the other side. How intriguing is that? Alice Sebold is genius.

And the next few chapters pull out your guts, and in my case, pry open the tear ducts. Sebold poignantly narrates the anguish of a family that first goes through the disappearance of a child -- the uncertainty, the false hope, the torture, and the blame.

And Susie Salmon, her whole life ahead of her when her murderer raped and killed her, wanders around in some spiritual limbo as she watches her family deal with everything that follows her death. Her killer remains at large, and she can't communicate with her family to help them find some kind of justice and closure.

I was completely drawn into the family drama and felt their pain as if it were real, as if it were mine. I was liking this book for how intensely sad, shocked, and angered it made me feel. I was crying in bed, lamenting evil, and mourning for life and innocence lost. Those who know me know that sometimes, getting me to cry can automatically get a book into my fave list. At any rate, Lovely Bones started remarkably well for me, and I was eager to continue.

Eventually, I stopped crying. And got hopelessly lost in the limbo that this book was.

Susie watches her family sometimes from up close, so close that her youngest brother can see her.

Sometimes she watches from Sebold's fictional heaven, one where there are levels to get through before one can finally be at peace. And I guess that's where this book starts losing steam for me. My theology of how heaven is like usually gets in the way whenever somebody tries to paint a non-biblical picture of it. I recognize literary license, but I cannot help losing that suspension of judgment and disbelief. But then, I recognize that that's my problem, not the book's. And if the writing is spellbinding enough, then I get over myself and allow myself to get back into the story. In this case, the spell was broken, and the writing failed to get me back.

The remarkable beginning is followed by a middle that gets heavily involved in the minutiae of their lives, with Susie observing in the sidelines, feeling cheated of the life she should have had. I know that there could be something beautiful in the ordinary, but this one just proved tiresome. And I found myself bearing with the middle part, hoping the ending would be better.

The ending is what really made this my worst book of the year. Forgive me for all the spoilers that are about to follow.

In the end, the murderer never ever faced justice; he did not suffer, nor paid restitution in any way. He just died because an icicle hit his head. Susie's father, Jack, did not get any closure, and on top of that, had to deal with the loss of a wife. His wife Abigail, discombobulated by the loss of Susie, for whom she sacrificed her career, ran away to find herself, only to end up as a waitress in a winery. They never even had a proper divorce, and Sebold just left the fate of their relationship hanging. The youngest brother, Buck, just ate a lot and became a mother-hating fat boy. Lindsey, the middle sister who lived in the shadow of her sister's life and death, lived a lackluster, under-achieving life; her happy ending was marrying her boyfriend right after they got out of college. If there's any consolation, it's Susie's alcoholic grandmother Lynn, who, at least, found peace and a positive life change.

Many years after her death, Susie had the chance to occupy the body of a girl named Ruth for a few hours. You would think that this would be her chance to reveal her killer's name; they were so close to a pit that contained evidence the police can use to find and accuse her killer. You would think she would use that opportunity to bring her family, especially her father, some peace and closure, say something to make her broken family feel better and move on. But no, she uses that precious time to have sex with her crush. Because of all the things that she missed out on due to her unfairly abbreviated life, it's really sex that she felt the most regret for? Really! And she uses another woman's body to make that happen. Really! To hell with her father, whose life will forever be empty. Never mind the other past and future victims of her killer. Never mind that she violated Ruth's body without her permission. She just wants to have sex because at 14, she didn't get the chance to do it. Can you see now why I think this is my worst read for 2010?

Now, you see, I was not hoping for a happy ending. But the back blurb did promise a tale filled with "hope, humor, suspense, even joy." Let's assume for a moment that I was not naive enough to believe that blurb, but I think it's fair to expect some kind of resolution at the end, for at least the major characters to find some meaning through their pain, for the pain of reading through this book to be worth it. Is that too much to ask? I don't mind sad endings, but I expect the author to do some tying up of loose ends. To me, it seems that Alice Sebold built up a fantastic framework for a fantastic story but in the end, she left a messy pile of not-so-lovely bones.

And that's why this is my worst read or 2010.

I Flipped through 71 books in 2010

2011-01-18T21:50:00.001-08:00

Before Shelfari, I had a collection of maybe 200-400 books. Mostly shelf candy. I would read whenever I felt like it, which was not all that frequent. On a good year, I would complete no more than 10 books. And I would scan an almost equal number of picture books on design, fashion, and domestic divaesque pursuits.

It was in 2007 when my friend, Sana, invited me to www.shelfari.com. It looked like an interesting site, a Facebook for book geeks, and it gave me a solution to my book inventory problem.

Through shelfari, I became part of a book club that changed my reading patterns dramatically.

Now, my shelves are bursting with close to two thousand books. I'm not boasting. I am groaning. And my husband is frowning because our living quarters look like a bookstore warehouse with books spilling out of the shelves onto precious walking space. Books sitting on his futon taking up his TV-watching space. Towers of books that threaten our safety.

So I have tried my best to do justice to the collection by forcing myself to read more and more books every year. I start the year with a plan, a target number of books to read, and it should be a target higher than the previous year's. So far, having a plan is working.

Here's a chart that shows the progression of my reading.

I am fuzzy about the years 2007 and 2008 because I was not purposely documenting my reading back then, but I think these are fairly accurate estimates.

As for 2010, I targeted to read 70 books, and I thought that I achieved that close to midnight of December 31. It turned out that I miscounted, and I actually read 71 books! Yey, me!

Now, I have to admit that the list includes a number of really, really, really short books with more pictures than text, but they are books nonetheless.

So, this is my quantity report for reading 2010.

In summary,

I read a total of 16,077 pages, not counting the pages of books I have only read partially. That's a summary of 226 pages per book.

Of the 71 books I read:

53 are fiction

18 are non-fiction

12 are children's books

8 are graphic novels or comic books or picture books

14 are Philippine publications

33 are novels

3 are short story anthologies

5 are biographies

3 are travel books

There is 1 business book,

1 self-help book,

and 1 poetry collection.

And the 71 books' titles and authors are:

Pugad Baboy XX 20th Edition by Pol Medina
The Passion by Jeanette Winterson
How the Garcia Girls Lost their Accents by Julia Alvarez
The Game by A.S. Byatt
The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon (reread)
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon
High Fidelity by Nick Hornby (reread)
The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
The Great Automatic Grammatizator and Other Stories by Roald Dahl
The Gathering by Anne Enright
Twilight by Stephenie Meyer
Mantissa by John Fowles
Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman
Blackbird House by Alice Hoffman
The Darwin Awards by Wendy Northcutt
My Life in France by Julia Child
Chasing Cezanne by Peter Mayle
Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier
Girl in Hyacinth Blue by Susan Vreeland
Falling Off the Map by Pico Iyer
Kubori Strips for the Soul by Michael David
Best Things in Life, A Second Collection of Comic Strips from Kuborikikiam.com by Michael David
Postsecret by Frank Warren
The Pretenders by F. Sionil Jose
On the Road by Jack Kerouac
Hallmark Creative and Thoughtful Gift Giving by Leah Ingram
The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula Leguin
What Now? by Ann Patchett
While I Was Gone by Sue Miller
Fables, The Deluxe Edition by Bill Willingham
The Mystic Masseur by VS Naipaul
You Can Reach the Top by Zig Ziglar
A Personal Matter by Kenzaburo Oe
The Pact by Jodi Picoult
A Good Year by Peter Mayle
Boys' Toys Bikes by Hulton Getty
Wine 101 by Gerald C. Hammon
Fifty Days by Sarah Quigley
Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins
Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins
Alamat ng Paniki by Segundo Matias
Fetch by Becky Bravo, illustrated by Blooey Singson
Pied Piper
Ang Mga Kwento ni Lola Basyang- Anting Anting, retold by Christine Bellen
Alamat ng Buwaya by Segundo Matias
Tell Me About Beatrix Potter by John Malam
The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett
4000 Years of Christmas by Earl W. Count and Alice Lawson Count
Flight to the Stars and other Stories by Samantha Mae Coyiuto
Billy Bryson's African Diary by Bill Bryson
Successful Time Management byPatrick Forsyth
Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie
The End of the Affair by Graham Greene
Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
The Many Moods of Plantation Bay
Picture Palace by Paul Theroux
Journey to Ellis Island by Carol Biernan
The Music School by John Updike
Slaughter House-Five by Kurt Vonnegut
Love, Ten Poems by Pablo Neruda Pablo Neruda
The Fat Woman's Joke by Fay Weldon
My Secret Bully by Trudy Ludwig
Twas the Night Before Christmas on IPad. by Clement Clarke Moore
A Loyal Character Dancer by Qiu Xialong
Blu's Hanging by Lois-Ann Yamanaka
Teo's Trash Can by Grace D. Chong
Big Eyes, Small Eyes by Grace D. Chong
The Magic of Apo Mayor, 31 pages Grace D. Chong
Half and Half by Grace D. Chong
Nana by Emile Zola Emile Zola
The Complete Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi

When I look at the mix, what I think I should read more of in 2011 are books on business, personal finance, writing, and creativity. I also should read more classics and more books to help me grow in my Christian faith.

I have achieved my target of reading 70 books.

Unfortunately, I don't think it was a year of quality books. Though I have enjoyed reading 2010's books, not one particular title leaps at me now as my automatic choice for my best read for the year. I have a few more days to agonize and choose.

I do know, already, what my worst read is. It's number 54.

In 2011, I will read 80 books. So help me, God.

I Flipped through Jose F. Lacaba's Showbiz Lengua, Chika & Chismax about Chuvachuchu

2011-01-03T23:38:00.001-08:00

My copy:

Trade Paperback
ISBN: 9789712724046
Complimentary copy from Anvil Manila
Read: January 2, 2011

141 pages

Book 1 for the 80-book challenge

Have you ever been in a salon where the staff seem to speak a language from another planet? A language that sounds vaguely familiar but with a lot of strange words that rhyme with eklavu and trubalu? A bewildering language peppered with names like Winnie Santos, Luz Valdez, Julie Yap Daza, and Purita Kalaw Ledesma? Have you ever scratched your head in total confusion as you watched a showbiz reporter mouth words that sound neither Tagalog nor English?

This book might just be the reference to help you decipher the jargon. And Jose Lacaba can be the professor to help you understand what the chuva they're talking about.

Poet, journalist, screenwriter, translator, and editorial consultant Jose F. Lacaba writes the column, Showbiz Lengua, for the showbiz chismax magazine, Yes!

I usually buy the magazine when the cover promises me a peek at some celebrity's home and/or closet. And when I do, I make sure I read Lacaba's column. But because I am not a loyal subscriber, I do not get to read as much as I would want to. So this book, which is a compilation of his posts, gives me a chance to catch up on what I've missed.

I daresay that his column is a league above other showbiz-oriented columns that dwell mostly with the minutiae of the sex lives, love lives, and other lives of showbiz personalities. Such columns provide me fodder for drinking party small talk, but leaves me hungry for meaty discussions on socially relevant topics. Lacaba's column, on the other hand, attempts to educate its readers about language; showbiz language that is.

Lacaba informs against the backdrop of the latest chismax to contextualize his language lessons. He highlights a current showbiz event or scandal, and picks up words and phrases that are part of the showbiz lexicon. He quotes celebrities who have used those words and phrases in a sentence.

Consulting a wide variety of sources that include Google, Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, the Cambridge International Dictionary of English, urbandictionary.com, Webster's Word Histories, the UP Diksiyonaryong Filipino, Lynne Truss, Lourd de Veyra, among others, this language maven (defined by William Safire as a self-proclaimed expert) digs up the etymology and discovers the colloquial use of words like chuva (filler slang word that can mean etcetera), jologs (baduy; the opposite of coño), and krung-krung (affectionate nickname for Koreana). I'm very familiar with the first two words, but before reading this book, I have never heard of krung-krung.

Learning new words is one of my passions, and this book satisfies by adding the following to my vocabulary:

spongklong - worse than jologs

iskongkrang – variant of spongklong

torotot – the husband of an adulterous woman

kaposh – opposite of posh

butata – zero, zilch, nada

sulsotant – a combination of the word sulsol (to instigate or incite) and consultant

plangak - derivative of plangana, plangush; it means: exactly!, correct, korek, korak,

This book also elucidates the difference between acronyms (abbreviations that can be pronounced as words) and initials (an abbreviation read by its individual letters). AIDS is an acronym, and HIV is an initial. And BURMA is an acronym that means, Between Us, Remember Me Always. MANILA, you will discover, is not just a city, but is a greeting that means, May All Nights Inspire Love Always. And I’m pretty sure your life would be so much better now that you know that PASIG stands for Please Always Say I’m Gorgeous.

If I may, I’d like to add to Lacaba’s research. On page 66, he discusses the term ala verde (free for all), and in the process of dissecting the term, he touches on the meaning of steak a la pobre, which he defines as “steak cooked in the style of the poor.” I dare to venture a deeper analysis. My guess is that Steak ala Pobre is the bastardized form of the French Steak Au Poivre, which is "a classic French steak dish with a creamy peppercorn sauce." The Steak ala Pobre I know of is also smothered with peppercorns. It's a delicious dish, but had it retained its name as steak au poivre, it would probably be not as popular for rich and pobre diners alike. A hungry carnivorous wouldn't want to bother with French pronunciations. But that's just my theory. I have "no lexicographic proof."

Though he seems to have done due research, Lacaba offers the same disclaimer in this book: "My assertions here are based purely on chika, chismak, and chukchak."

Plangak!