Black Venus is a historical fiction novel based on the creatively fertile, yet personally contentious, relationship between Charles Baudelaire and Jeanne Duvall. Baudelaire is know for art critique and literary translation but is also one of France’s greatest poets; his work Les Fleurs du Mal (the flowers of evil) was a modern work exploring the dichotomies of human existence, often grounded in graphic, erotic images inspired by his cabaret artist mistress.

Baudelaire and Duvall’s relationship was fraught with mutual affairs and contentious arguments over money, which neither of them had enough of and manipulated from Baudelaire’s mother at every possible turn. MacManus does a wonderful job showing the compelling, dependent nature of their relationship without lulling the reader into believing theirs was an affair founded on true love or romantic destiny.

Black Venus weaves their relationship into the greater fabric of Baudelaire’s life, including his business relationship with his publisher, his tangled, confusing dependence on his mother and his philosophy regarding his poetry and desire to move beyond the Romantic work being produced around him.

Baudelaire was determined to write about the all-encompassing contrast between good and evil, and his lush, evocative imagery is echoed in James MacManus’s prose throughout Black Venus. Readers will feel transported to 19th century Paris, a place where Baudelaire and Duvall buy clothes on the credit of his mother’s name and the line between cabaret singers and high-society mistresses is birth and chance and not attitude nor behavior.

MacManus’s novel shines when writing about the landscape of Baudelaire’s Paris and his fevered dedication to the city and the life he wants to lead, even when he finds himself dodging creditors by moving constantly and cursing pharmacies for not supplying him with suitable amounts of laudanum — the liquid form of opium Duvall uses to entice Baudelaire to her bosom whenever he attempts to break their entangled bond.

Watching Baudelaire’s descent into literary pornographer, abandoned by his more famous friends at an obscenity trial, is painful. Knowing his work would later be considered innovative and a cornerstone of France’s literary tradition was a small solace as his personal life descended into disaster.

Black Venus will thrill literary enthusiasts, historical fiction fans and philosophers who ponder whether or not greatness in art must come from suffering.

If you could transport yourself back to another era, which one would you choose?

I received a copy of Black Venus by James MacManus for the purposes of this review. No other compensation was received, and all opinions are my own.

Staging.

I packed away books until the shelves were almost bare, the titles not as important as the colors of the covers and the sizes of their spines. With every second measured, the rest of life fell by the wayside: writing, reading, blogging, crafting were all swept aside for proper pillow placement and daily cleaning and polishing.

The letters stared at me from the wall. I could remember pouring over them while pregnant, deciding on font and size and watching Ryan smooth them onto the wall with a steady hand. Later, when she left her crib, colorful decals of flowers and butterflies flitted around the white letters. Those decals, sturdy and re-positionable, were moved around into clusters around the height of a certain three, than four, than five year old.

The letters remained, almost a part of the paint, almost permanent, definitely not re-positionable.

I took pictures. Multiple photos, needing to make sure I captured her room as it was with a small little saying that encompasses so much about what I hope for my children. Then I slid my fingers across the decals, finding a weakness in the thin edge, stretching and peeling the letters from the lavender paint.

They waved and crumpled in my fingers, and I didn’t bother to blink back the tears, alone in a room she now shares with her brother, a room that may only exist in her future memory in bits and pieces.

In the daytime, when phone calls about showings lead to hectic minutes of readying the house and packing snacks and sunscreen, I see the house as I think it maybe should have always looked. Lines of furniture cleanly flow between rooms, colors tied together with cushions and candles.

But the things packed away, some of them gone forever, those are the things that made our house our home. And in the nighttime, I allow that feeling to sink in a bit, and I hope this next chapter is filled with the fulfillment of dreams we’ve found here.

Our house is on the market right now. Order reigns supreme.

Bookcases are pared down to hold books in uniform colors and coordinated baskets and candles that tie together the colors that weave through our home. The tablecloth and plastic IKEA trays protect the dining room table until it’s time to leave, when those things are swept into hiding and the dining room table sits with a centerpiece and without traces of macaroni and cheese.

My house hasn’t looked so lovely in years, and it doesn’t look exactly like our home anymore.

Orphan Train by Christina Baker Kline tells two stories: Vivian is ninety-one and needs someone to help her organize belongs that have gathered dust in her attic, and Molly is seventeen and needs to do court-ordered community service because she’s an almost-aged-out, misunderstood foster child who slid one of three library copies of Jane Eyre into the waistband of her pants.

Molly’s story is secondary, in my opinion at least, to Vivian’s story — or more accurately, to Niamh’s story. Molly meets Vivian as a wealthy widow, one who inherited her money from her wealthy parents’ family business, never dreaming of the things which she and Vivian have in common.

In 1929, Vivian was Niamh’s, an Irish child who found herself an orphan when a house fire claims the lives of her father, brothers, and sister, and the mind and health of her already-fragile mother. As the family only arrived in America recently, Niamh has no one to turn to and finds herself on an orphan train. Orphan trains took homeless children from Manhattan and fostered them out to families in hope that they would eventually be adopted, though in actuality many of the children were used for cheap labor.

Vivian’s story unfolds as her relationship with Molly deepens, particularly when Molly asks her to talk about her “portage” project for a history class. The project involves talking to someone about “the moments in their lives when they’ve had to take a journey, literal or metaphorical,” and the things and memories they chose to gather with them on their journeys and the ones they’ve left behind.

Reading about Vivian’s attachment to the items in her attic, the touchstones to the different memories she’s carried silently for so many years, was truly heartbreaking and awe-inspiring at a time when my own thoughts are wrapping around the idea that we’ll be leaving the only home my children have ever known.

Christina Baker Kline’s storytelling is superb; her pacing and imagery are really lovely. Though Niamh’s journey to becoming Vivian is often ugly, Baker Kline’s words let us watch Niamh’s spirit find the hope and beauty and survival instinct that shape her future life in such definitive ways. I re-read a particular passage again and again, loving the image evoked:

Hours later, a faint blue tinge yields to the soft pastels of dawn, and soon enough sun is streaming in, the stop-start rhythm of the train making it all feel like still photography, thousands of images that taken together create a scene in motion.

Orphan Train is rife with such language, and the parallel stories of Vivian and Molly are revealed in a delicate dance of women who learned as girls that they would have to protect their hearts in one way or another.

I highly recommend Orphan Train, and I think it would be a fabulous book club choice — and I’m not just saying that as a segue to the She Reads Book Club discussions that will take place later this month. The mixture of historical details and the complexity of well-written women’s fiction make Orphan Train a wonderful selection for book discussions.

Orphan Train is the May book club selection at She Reads. Visit She Reads and see what other bloggers think of the novel (and see the recipe created in homage to the book.)
I received a copy of Orphan Train for the purpose of this review as part of the She Reads blogger review network. All opinions are my own.

She had planned to ignore his text, to silence his call, to hide in the office she hated except for the heavy oak door that divided her from the rest of the world.

In thirty-one hours she’d be on a plane, back to the other place she buried her secrets, and waiting for him here made her feel like she was drowning in sand. Minutes away, the safety of a computer screen beckoned, the towering building casting a shadow on the far side of the park. But it was too late; she felt him walking towards her without turning her head, the air electric and warm between them. Months of lies smoothed her lips into an easy smile, and she hoped her sleek aviators hid her eyes as she fell into his.

“Thanks for meeting me. I know you’ve got a lot to do before tomorrow,” he apologized, sitting on the far side of the bench. The space between them echoed with expectation and uncertainty.

“This was never supposed to be a complication,” she admonished.

A gust of wind punctuated her practiced opening, shaking loose a shower of cherry blossoms from a nearby tree.

He smoothed petals from her hair and laughed. She watched his forearms flex as he opened the top of the crumpled bag he’d carried across the lawn and slid one of the to-go cups of coffee closer to her.

“Coffee’s not a complication,” he said.

“I have a feeling,” she started, “that coffee’s not the only thing you brought.”

“Nope,” he hesitated, and she heard the beginning of a confession in his tone. “There’s a bunch of candy in there, too.”

For the first time since she’d met him, she saw the hint of a lie throw a shadow over his face. In an instant it was gone, but she’d recognized it and drew strength from it instead of despair.

Complications were terrifying, but she knew all about handling secrets.

From an REM song and spring blossoms, courtesy of this week’s Write at the Merge prompt.

Baby, instant soup doesn’t really grab me today. Today I need something more substantial: a can of beans or black eyed peas, some Nescafe and ice, a candy bar, a falling star, or a reading from Dr. Seuss.
REM – “The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight”

With obvious references to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Phil Duncan takes on the framework of the classic story and catapults it into a young adult tale set in modern times. Taking on a classic can be a bit dangerous, but Duncan lets his protagonist take the reins of Wax and hurtle through the story with the rash decision making typical of a teenager.

In life, Yancy faded into the background. Sandwiched between his two exceptionally smart siblings and shoved into lockers by stronger, more popular boys, he and his best friend play video games and chronicle their masterful pickup lines in a notebook instead of actually using them. In post-death, Yancy can’t fade away. His turquoise skin flames to magenta when he’s angry, his yellow eyes make him look like a demon and his rejuvenating limbs allow him to save people from fires or fold himself into briefcase size when necessary.

Duncan ups the stakes in Wax with the million-dollar deal Yancy’s parents made in order to bring him back to life — and to dig their family finances out of the grave. Yancy needs to decide between personal morality and family obligations, and he’s distracted at every turn by his crush on foreign-exchange student Suma and her wise advice to use his death to enjoy the things he never did in life.

Each of Duncan’s characters are quirky, and even minor characters like Dr. Blankenship’s precocious adopted son Percy, are given plot arcs and character depth that could have been overlooked in a tale that pushes the limits of mad-scientist lore. I particularly enjoyed a scene that seemed to be an homage to Teen Wolf, though that might be my love for 80s movies projecting itself onto a book.

Reviewing Wax was a pleasure, and I think fans of young adult fiction will especially enjoy the authenticity of Yancy’s voice and the care Duncan takes to avoid cliches in his plot and in his characters.

If you unexpectedly found yourself immortal, what would you do first?

I received a copy of Wax by Phil Duncan for the purposes of this review. All opinions are my own.

But not this Monday.

His lion’s roar was too loud. She didn’t like watching him team up with the bigger boys on the playground instead of turning to her for directions about the game. Their delicate balance was upset, and she took her frustration out on the person who worships each move she makes.

Even as his tears traced dirt down his cheeks, his monkey legs wrapped around my waist as he sobbed, he looked to her for assurance that she wasn’t too upset, that she wasn’t crying, too.

I wish I could say my heart wasn’t chasing anger around in circles on our ride home. We talk about that immediate burst of adrenaline that courses through our veins when someone hurts one of our children, but what of those moments when they hurt each other? When a silly preschool retaliation goes badly and thoughts of scratched corneas and wood chips in eyes keep a lump in my throat and my pulse racing?

Later, I held her on my lap and we quietly spoke of disappointment, not only in what she had done but in what she hadn’t done. We talk so much about supporting each other, and I want them to know they can depend on each other the way they depend on Ryan and me. Her eyes flashed with guilt tinged with defiance, testing the boundaries of the balance beam we walk as parents when deciding on discipline.

Sensing a lull, a chink in our conversation, her glance wandered towards the TV, a question on her lips. Quietly I explained that she wouldn’t be watching TV for a week, that she and her brother would have to find a way to entertain each other during the time they normally fall into a world created by Disney.

Days have passed, and there are moments I wonder who is feeling the most weight from this discipline decision. Thirty minutes of TV time can often equate to three hours of trying to juggle work with refereeing a Zingo game.

But then I watch them fit themselves into the space inside a train track they’ve built and taken apart and built again. Their voices are too quiet for me to hear for brief moments, at least, and I cross my fingers that their sibling bond is being strengthened in those murmured conversations. I’d like to think she’s learning and not just feeling restricted from TV.

Some days she dances on the balance beam. Some days her brow furrows in concentration, and I can see her struggle with the four inches under her feet until she slips and stumbles. Four inches isn’t a lot of room, but with a little practice and a little patience, we can all figure out a way to walk on it.

Do your discipline methods change depending on the circumstance?

My legs will move forward with the knowledge that I will never qualify for the Boston Marathon, but they will move forward. My heart will pound and my breath will catch and my miles will pass, and finish lines will never look the same again — not the ones filled with spectators and not the solitary finish of my porch after a run timed only in my head.

I want to cry and I want answers and I want the impossible — to gather my children, the people I love, even strangers on the street into a protective bubble that will prevent this sort of terror from happening again. History and the darkness that decorates human nature remind me that this will happen again, in a different form, in a different place, as unexpected, horrific, and inexplicable as it is each time humankind turns on humankind in an act of violence.

But history tells us something else, strong and certain. With the perpetuation of acts like this, the other side of human nature arises: first responders, medical personnel, even strangers on the street come together to help each other in ways that shine with the beauty and heart of our communities. Gratitude is too small of a word for how I feel about the people who give us hope in the face of tragedy.

For all of the darkness in the world, there will always be more love and more light, and that thought helps lift some of the weight from my heart tonight. My thoughts and prayers are with Boston.

And in the morning, I will lace up my shoes and I will run.

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I temper my potential lit-snob leanings with a fondness for over-the-top teen flicks and count Clueless (1995) as one of my favorite movies. Clueless for the, well not-so-clued-in, is a valley-girl modernization of Jane Austen’s Emma. I might argue, if one was so inclined to argue about such things, that Amy Heckerling, like Jane Austen, had her finger so tightly on the pulse of social expectations that her slang-filled dialogue is a cultural study that could be used in sociology classes.

Like Heckerling’s Clueless, Lana Long’s Finding Favor is a modernization of an Austen tale. Long takes on Mansfield Park, and her story isn’t so much an homage as it is a direct adaptation, including some of Austen’s original character names.

Favor Miller is the orphaned ward of the wealthy Brown family, whose connections to Favor’s family are revealed throughout the novel. In exchange for Favor’s college tuition and a desired horticultural internship, Mr. Brown wants Favor to sign a contract revoking her best-friendship-bordering-on-romantic relationship with the younger Brown son, Ethan. Favor is torn between her heart and her desire for freedom, and finds her relationships with everyone in the Brown family are more entangled than she possibly imagined.

Reviewing Finding Favor is difficult, because the plot is nearly identical to Mansfield Park. The tangled relationships and barely veiled jealousies are woven into Finding Favor, just as they are Mansfield Park, and Long does a lovely job staying true to Austen’s character’s motivations, triggers, and intentions.

My main complaint about Finding Favor is I don’t feel as though Long had as much fun as she could have with the modernization. The reason Clueless works as a retelling of Emma isn’t because the story itself is updated, but because Heckerling pays close attention to the way modern details affect her characters and their plot lines.

I can’t help but feel Mansfield Park would have to be much more deviously plotted to be a realistic story in our information-hungry society. While Long makes use of smart phones and texting, the story itself hasn’t moved forward into modern times. It’s more difficult to believe in a secret relationship between two wealthy and well-connected young people in a world where It Girls are cataloged in gossip columns around the country, and it’s hard to believe that family money wouldn’t be tied to trust funds for all of the Brown children.

Besides the vaguely alcohol-tinged party reputation of Tom Brown, the young people are remarkably well-behaved. While Austen’s novels are carefully appropriate, the romantic innuendo leads itself to a more rollicking and risque retelling when modernized.

Austen fans may enjoy reading Finding Favor as a revisiting of Mansfield Park, but I can’t help but wish Lana Long would have been a bit more daring in her modernization, in order to truly breathe new life into the story.

Do you enjoy modern retellings of classic works? What’s your favorite?

Novel Publicity and Lana Long are offering a giveaway in conjuncture with the book tour for Finding Favor. Please enter below for a chance to win!

I received a copy of Finding Favor as part of the Novel Publicity tour. All opinions are my own.

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Stories.

She bounced between my chair, Grandpa’s chair, and where Grandma sat on the couch. Dylan trailed after her, watching and learning and laughing each time she paused. “Grandma! Now it’s your turn to tell a story!” Buzzing between us like a bee sampling nectar, pausing on laps or resting against cushions, she even drew Dylan into her game. My dad’s voice became the most requested, drawing me back to childhood road trips, when he would weave legends and familiar books and his own imaginative touches into stories that lasted far longer than anything I can put together without the aid of a keyboard or a notebook.

Stories.

I was unsure what to expect during our first Listen to Your Mother rehearsal. I tucked my pages into my purse and drove, a sense of expectation making the drive seem both longer and shorter than it really is. We rehearsed in Beth Fletcher’s studio (the official photographer and a local sponsor for our Listen to Your Mother show), a mix of introverts and extroverts meeting for the first time in an environment of airy lightness. Chairs were arranged in a circle, sleek sofas and cushy loveseats, wooden folding chairs of various sizes and after introductions and refreshments, we read our pieces.

Stories.

Approximately sixty minutes of stories threaded together one through the other to become our unique, collective tale of motherhood. My breath stopped. Laughter bubbled, then erupted. Tissues halted the flow of tears. And I realized we hadn’t needed to do introductions at all, not really. These were our introductions, these moments, these pieces of our lives laid bare to become part of something more. Beautifully varied, like the eclectic seating on which we rested, together our words came together as a complete testament to something impossible to define: motherhood.

Stories.

Later we lingered. We nibbled at brownies and sipped water and watched the light change through studio windows. Many of us strangers earlier in the day, we now stood together unable to take the first steps towards the door, away from the connection we had crafted with our words. Tortilla chips sat untouched on plates, and still we laughed and talked and listened.

Words. Stories. Connections.

Does your family tell stories? Who does it best?

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