Girl Detective

When Drake was a baby, he cried a lot. I was very frustrated at baby books, articles and other parents who said that after a few weeks, I would learn what his cries meant. I never did get that kind of spidey-sense. I took my best guess, and spent a lot of time longing for him to talk, so that he could TELL me what he was crying about. Now that he’s been verbal for over a year, I see how misguided I was. When Drake is upset, he has a hard time using words. Further, he doesn’t yet seem to understand cause and effect, so “why are you crying?” doesn’t compute. Finally, when he does answer, it doesn’t always make sense. Does “bug in the air conditioner” mean he saw one, he dreamed one, or that he’s afraid it might happen? And might his extreme response be due to illness, even if he says he feels OK?

I wish I could go back in time and tell my former self I was wasting my time wishing. My almost-three-year-old boy is an unreliable narrator.

I’m afraid in my fatigue fog of last night I may have made my two-page goal sound somewhat easier to achieve than it actually is. The good thing about two pages is ….

Please, excuse me while I go up and comfort Guppy for the–wait, wait, he’s stopped crying.

I just finished my two pages. They were first-draft ugly, and probably would be considerably shorter if I applied any editorial effort at all. If they come across as disjointed, it’s likely due to the three or more times I ran up two flights of stairs from our basement (current writing haven) to Guppy’s bassinet to re-insert his Nuk and pat his tummy to get him back to his nap.

Yesterday was even more of a challenge. Drake woke screaming, so loud and so long that he eventually woke Guppy down the hall, who added his voice to Drake’s. I tried to calm Guppy and learn what it was that had upset Drake. Over the course of 45 minutes, I administed some Motrin, nursed the baby, held both boys on my lap to read books, and convinced Drake to get back in bed to finish his nap. Neither boy was able to go back to sleep, but they were able to stay quiet for a total of about fifteen minutes within thirty so that I could finish my two pages.

The good thing about writing two pages is that they’re short enough to withstand numerous interruptions, and can likely be completed even if one or both boys has trouble during naptime.

Children’s author and Newbery Award winner Kate DiCamillo used to say at readings that for years, she called herself a writer but didn’t write. When she finally got serious about it, she set herself a two-page-a-day goal, and has been doing that, with eventual great success, ever since.

My own fiction writing habit has tended to follow a feast-or-famine pattern. It is only recently, in the months following the birth of my second child, that I realized I had to set a small, realistic goal (oh, Freud, why do I always type it as “gaol”?) to make any progress, post-Guppy. I borrowed Kate’s 2-page-a-day idea. And it’s working.

On many days I have just enough time while the boys nap to write two pages and a quick blog entry. Some days I even write–gasp!–three pages. I’m making progress, and the confidence I’ve gotten as the page numbers pile up is very heartening in my current state of sleep deprivation.

Of course, the house is a mess, and there are piles of things everywhere. But I’m writing. I’m also proving what I’ve found in the past, which is that writing begets more writing. I’m at no loss for things to post about on the blog, and my current draft of novel #2 is coming along nicely in its 2-page increments.

This draft is my third start of novel #2. The first draft and first start was during NaNoWriMo 2004. I let it sit till I felt ready to send out novel #1 to editors, then picked it back up. My writing group and I agreed that parts of it had potential, but it wasn’t a sequel to #1. I started again, trying it from the point of view of a new character. It still didn’t feel right until I introduced a second voice, then a third and a fourth. Now I’ve got four characters telling the story, and I feel a fifth is on the way. Parts of my original draft are salvageable, but most of the current draft is new. Right now that feels fun and exciting, not like work, so I’m pretty sure this draft is heading in the right direction at last.

#23 in my book challenge for the year was The Thin Place by Kathryn Davis. This was a complex, challenging and disturbing book. Set in the New England town of Varennes, its omniscient point of view shifts among characters, animals, and sort of wide-focus panning of history. The prose defies a quick reading. The characters are beautifully drawn, which is suprising given the number of them. I cared about many of them, which is why I found the novel so troubling. In general, good things did not happen. I love a good redemptive ending. This novel not only didn’t have one, but also suggested that redemption may be only lucky accident.

One thing that bothered me in this novel that had so much going on was an apparent mistake. One character at a dinner early on says, “Help yourself to some of Mrs. Banner’s mashed potatoes, girls.” (p. 28) but on the next page, the omniscient narrator states “The room smelled like potatoes and varnish and baby powder, though they weren’t having potatoes but Le Sueur canned peas…” This novel is juggling so much that I needed to feel the author was in complete control. This passage made me doubt it early on, though nothing else in the book did.

Overall, though, the book was provocative, thoughtful, dark, and funny, like this passage I particularly liked:

The minds of twelve-year-old girls are wound round and round with golden chains, padlocked shut, and the key tossed out the car window on the way to the fast-food restaurant. This is probably a good thing, since what they keep in there isn’t always very nice. Human sacrifices, cockeyed sexual advantures both sadistic and masochistic, also kitties with balls of yarn and puppies chewing on slippers and soft pink babies and disembowelings. (p. 59)

The New York Times recently did a stupid list of books, one that purported to discover the best American novels of the past 25 years. The list was predictable and boring, as was the pseudo-controversy it inpired, as other lists have done.

I find canon lists boring because I’m more interested in how individuals I like respond to books, emotionally or intellectually. And while some books are most certainly good, many of those aren’t actually enjoyable. Take Beloved, for example, the novel that won the top spot. A great novel. But so wrenching and awful that it scared the bejesus out of me. It’s not one I press on friends who are looking for a good read.

There are two questions I find useful when I ask people about books. One, what books have you read that you both admired AND enjoyed? And two, what was a watershed book for you, one that might not be a so-called great book, but that had an important role in your life?

The latter question was one asked by The Guardian in this article from last month, which discusses differences between typical watershed novels for men and women. I have read very few of the New York Times list, but most of the women’s watershed novels listed, and a few of the men’s as well.

There is one book that answers both of my questions: Possession by A.S. Byatt. I admired it, I enjoyed it, and it was a watershed novel (touched on previously here).

What do you think? Are lists worthwhile? Did you like the NYT list? What are books you admire and enjoy? What are your watershed books, and were they listed in the Guardian’s article?

Lately Drake insists that every book is what he calls a song book–one that contains something that can be sung. Some of his regular books fall into this category, like Sandra Boynton’s Snoozers, and They Might Be Giants Bed, Bed, Bed. Now, though, he’ll pick up my copy of Kathryn Davis’s The Thin Place, open it and sing Frere Jacques. He’ll pick up G. Grod’s book on Texas h01d-em p0ker (trying to avoid increasing my spam hits) and start singing along, pointing to the pictures of cards as if he’s pointing to musical notes in a hymnal. He’s also continuing to sing entire songs by himself. Interestingly, though, he likes to be sung to, but refuses to sing along, either when I sing to him, or in music class. I think he might be shaping up to be a diva.

Seventy-four percent of the women passengers survived the [Titanic], while 80 percent of the men perished. Why? Because the men followed the principle “women and children first.”

I read this book review of Masculinity, a book by Harvey Mansfield (link from Arts and Letters Daily), and was surprised at how not offended I was. Had I been on the Titanic with my two kids, I would not have been gallant; I would have taken a seat on a lifeboat, and appreciated those who let me. Titanic example aside, I think Mansfield’s argument for masculinity as presented in the review is a compelling one. Yes, I’m certain that there are countless individuals who don’t conform to the norm. But I bet they don’t make a dent in the majority who do. I gave up the illusion a long time ago that my husband would care as much about the house as I do. And one of the main reasons I consider schooling my children myself is that I don’t see conventional schools that can accomodate the energy of boys. (Hey, I can barely do so most days.) I especially like Mansfield’s idea of a public/private split. That publicly, we strive for equality in the sexes, but at home we embrace what differences come naturally. Like Nietzsche, whom Mansfield quotes, the book sounds like it is problematic, and its arguments dangerous in the wrong hands. Yet his un-PC arguments sound so well-grounded and reasonable that this feminist was provoked without being pissed off.

I have grown tired of sarcastic humor. It’s a given in much of the blogosphere, but I wish authors would rely on other methods. They could even–gasp!–not try to be funny, and instead write in a straightforward manner. I’m not referring to the Onion/McSweeney’s et. al. but rather to the type of short, factual posts that I sometimes have to re-read in order to glean the information buried in the snark. Perhaps I’m impatient and befuddled from lack of sleep, but I’m increasingly annoyed by what I perceive as adolescent posturing. (Sorry, no links. The sites I’m thinking of are ones I like, in spite of the bitchiness.)

Drake, like many boys his age, loves cars. While I never set out to teach him the names and brands of cars, he asked, we answered, and he learned. (Quick parenting aside–I never know what he’ll pick up, and what he’ll ignore. It’s an awesome lesson in how brains work individually. I’ll try to remember that the next time I’m fretting about potty-learning.)

The first few cars he learned were distinctive looking–Beetle Bugs and PT Cruisers. Lately, though, he’s able to identify cars by their logos. The first type he learned was Mercedes–”a Y car, Mom.” “Uh, yeah, kind of.” Next were Volkswagens, which he initially called W cars. He calls Pontiacs triangle cars, and he learned that H cars were Hondas.

Last week we were walking when he started talking agitatedly. “The H is falling! The H is falling, Mom!”

I backed up a few steps to take a look at the car we’d just passed. It was a Hyundai.

#22 in my book challenge for this year was My Sister’s Continent by Gina Frangello, a recommendation from Blog of a Bookslut. I nearly stopped reading at page 23 because of writing issues, but a friend said it was worth it, so I continued and am glad I did.

I’ll cover the writing issues first, because most of them are technical issues. Perhaps they’re matters of taste, but they were pervasive enough to repeatedly interrupt my progress through the book. There were overwritten sentences, like “Her hair smelled cold like Christmas.” There were passages of unwieldy dialogue. The framing device for the novel is clumsy. It is supposed to be a re-writing of one twin’s psychological case study to include the perspectives of both twins. This leads to a thoroughly wacked point of view. It’s told in first person by one twin who includes her sister’s experiences in third person (both in near past and in flashback), but occasionally goes into second person to address her shrink, the author of the original case study. It begins and ends with diatribes against the shrink that felt unearned, because the shrink sessions were such a small part of the overall narrative.

In spite of my problems with writing and structure, I really liked the book. It is a contemporary re-telling of Freud’s Dora case, and is filled with complex, interesting characters. There’s dysfunction, illness, mystery and a lot of dark, messy sex. There’s some Atwood-ian ambiguity at the end, leaving the reader to decide what (and whom) to believe. Kirby, the narrator, goes through a believable and wrenching transformation. Her sister Kendra, the absent twin, seems to be self-destructing, though things are not as simple as they might appear. Frangello puts some intricate twists right through to the end. Though Kirby asserts that it is both their stories, ultimately Kendra is the one I cared most about.

A friend who reads parenting books (I don’t) told me recently about a tendency to avoid discussing emotions with boys. The next time I read with Drake, George and Martha Round and Round by the late, great James Marshall, I pointed to a picture of George looking happy, and asked Drew what George looked like. Silence. I asked, “Does George look happy?” “No.” Further silence. “Well, Drake, what does George look like?” A pause. “Good!”

OK, I thought, “good” is close enough. Then I pointed out a picture of Martha looking unhappy, and asked Drake what she might be feeling. Silence. Then, “Does she look unhappy?” “No.” “What does Martha look like?” A pause. “Cranky!”

Later in the book when one of the characters had their eyes closed, Drake pointed to it and said “Sleeping!” (of course, with his lisp it was more like “Fweeping”)

Further reading of books has only reinforced these answers. According to Drake, there are two emotions: Good and Cranky. And if someone has their eyes closed, they’re Asleep.

You know, it’s not a bad world view.

It was a while back when I decided that I wanted to steer clear of the usual purview of Mommy blogs and instead focus on how to keep my brain engaged and learning, while also instilling a love of learning in my then kid, and now kids. Caitlin Flanagan’s recently published book, To Hell with All That, has re-ignited a lot of Mommy bitterness. A lot of copy has been spilled, so I’ll keep my remarks short.

There have always been jerks. And there have always been people, mommy and otherwise, who try to make themselves feel good about their life decisions by criticizing those who choose differently. Further, it is often a luxury of class (economic or intellectual) that enables folks to mount their high horses. (Akin to the phenomenon described in this article on urban sprawl; link via Arts & Letters Daily.) Finally, it is infighting like this that distracts us from real problems.

So I’ll offer some advice I struggle to follow myself:

Don’t be mean. To each her own. The only person you can know well enough to judge is yourself.

#21 in my book challenge for the year was highly hyped The Accidental by Ali Smith. The prose struck me immediately as more than usually challenging, though not in an obvious, arduous way. Smith worked some subtle hocus pocus behind the scenes. The book shifts among five points of view, four of which are told in third person, only one of which is in first person. Not only does Smith pull off five distinct voices, but also five distinct styles. I was indifferent to the book at first, suspecting it of being clever rather than good. It grew to a strong finish, and further thought on it has made me appreciate it more.

One thing that bothered me, though, was that the text of the book wasn’t justified. I wonder if this was done deliberately to unsettle, because it certainly did so to me. I never knew how comforting typesetting was until I experienced its absence in this book.

The topic comes from Carnival of the Couture, a project of Manolo the Shoe-Blogger. Each week fashion-minded bloggers respond to new topics. This week is hosted by The Bargain Queen. I haven’t participated before, but this week’s question was so easy to answer that I had to respond:

What is your best-ever bargain? Where did you find it, how much was it and why is it your favourite?

My best ever bargain was my wedding gown. I found it among the regular dresses at a Filene’s Basement in St. David’s, PA. (Not THE Filene’s Basement in Boston, MA, but one of the TJ Maxx-ish outposts.) The Filene’s price tag read $200, but the original was still attached. The dress came from Holt Renfrew, a Canadian department store. The original price was $1195.

It was a beautiful dress of celadon silk taffeta, with an empire waist, and a long-sleeved illusion bodice embroidered with sequins and pearls. I had been looking for a slightly unconventional gown for some time, but couldn’t justify spending thousands of dollars on what I’d found in bridal shops. Also, most of the colored bridal gowns were blue, pink, or champagne. I’d never yet found green, which suits me because I’m a redhead.

I took the gown into the dressing room, tried it on, then went out to the three-way mirror. Another woman there looked on.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “But where would you wear it?”

“My wedding,” I smiled back, somewhat dazed.

As I removed the dress in the dressing room, I looked for the tag. The designer used his name and last initial. They were the same as those of my fiance.

I took the dress to the register. The clerk said they were running a promotion. She offered me a scratch card for the chance to win an additional percentage off. I scratched off 20%, so my $200 dress only cost $160, and there was no sales tax.

I sped home and called my parents, friends and sisters. “You’ll never believe this!” I crowed. “I found a beautiful, unique dress, the designer has the same name and last initial as my fiance, and it only cost $160!”

It was truly the best-ever bargain.

For the third year in a row, Drake didn’t get the memo that it was Mother’s Day. He threw a monstrous tantrum before church. We did eventually get there. Afterward, as I was loading Guppy in the car and telling Drake to get in his seat, he ignored me and splashed in a mud puddle. Suddenly he yelled. “Fell in puddle!”

His pants were covered in mud. I had to finish with Guppy and hustle over to Drake, then remove his shoes, socks and pants. He rode home in his diaper. Here was the exchange in the car:

Me: Why did your pants get muddy?
D: Fell in puddle.
Me: Why did you fall in the puddle?
D: Didn’t listen to Mom.
Me: What happens when you don’t listen to Mom?
D: Bad things.

#35 in my movie challenge for the year was The Quiet Man, which was a pick of my husband’s off our Tivo’d cache. He enjoyed it more than I did. I found the Irish characters too calculatedly charming/drunk/whatever, and the Taming-of-the-Shrew-ish-ness of the story was more than a little troubling. It’s beautiful to look at, as is John Wayne as a young, tall, handsome man. But seeing Wayne drag O’Hara over miles to confront her brother over Wayne’s supposed cowardice had me staring in horror, especially as it was played for laughs. Additionally, the resolution, in which Wayne fights the brother, and wins back his bride, is both predictable and disappointing. Not as overtly sexist as Alfie, it nonetheless left the same yucky taste in my brain.

Please allow for a brief departure into “kids say the darndest things.” I try hard to be an un-mommy blog, and focus on books, movies and other things that I feel contribute to a thriving life of the mind, but occasionally things happen that I feel it would be remiss to keep to myself.

My husband and I were discussing possible candidates for the next presidential election. He named someone, and I asked, “Isn’t that person evil?”

Before he could answer, Drake chimed in.

“_I’m_ evil,” he grinned.

My husband and I paused and stared at him, mouths agape.

After he recovered, my husband said, “No, Drake, you are a force for good. Say, ‘I’m a force for good’”

Drake’s grin grew wider. “I’m evil, Dad!”

I shook my head and sighed. “He’s gonna be a Republican, isn’t he?”

#34 in my movie challenge this year was 13 Conversations about One Thing. Stilted and boring, with an intrusive score. I’d heard this recommended as an overlooked movie worth checking out, one that covered some of the same ground as Crash but better. I disagree. Crash was a flawed film, but I found it well-acted and not boring.

#20 in my book challenge for the year, Fall on Your Knees has been on my shelf since 1998. It was a recommendation from my friend Queenie, whose past picks (Alias Grace, Bee Season, The Beekeeper’s Apprentice, The Intuitionist, Plainsong, among others) were both intelligent and entertaining. At 500+ densely printed pages in trade paperback, though, its size put me off. But since part of this year’s book challenge is to read those poor souls gathering dust unread on the shelf, I finally gave it my time. This is a big, juicy novel with lots of characters and time shifts and a secret that took me by surprise. I especially loved two characters–Materia and her daughter Frances–and couldn’t quite bring myself to hate some others, no matter how nastily they behaved. There’s lots of painful stuff, but there’s also lots of joy, and I enjoyed the time I spent with the Cape Breton family, and am now off to dig up my Natalie MacMaster and Ashley MacIsaac CDs.

One of the questions that has come up at most writing classes and conferences I’ve attended is, “What about self publishing?” Often the question is being asked by someone whose work has been repeatedly rejected by the mainstream publishing industry. Here is a good entry at Slushpile (via Bookslut) that discusses self publishing.

Repeated rejection does not have to mean that one’s writing sucks. Many famous writers have amusing rejection stories. Kate DiCamillo received hundreds of rejection letters before her Newbery Honor book, Because of Winn Dixie, was pulled out a slushpile and published. Jerry Spinelli, another Newbery award winner, waved a giant sheaf of rejections at a talk I attended. Turns out those were the ones in a corner of the garage that got overlooked when he purged the boxes and boxes of other ones, once he got successful enough not to need them as reminders.

Repeated rejection, though, might mean that one’s writing sucks. And if it does, self-publishing, or publishing on demand, is not going to improve the chances of getting published in the mainstream media, which is what nearly all writers want. It is simply going to annoy or embarrass people who have to listen to the writer go on about how the mainstream press doesn’t recognize genius but is only looking for the next big thing, blah, blah, blah. And it is going to give those people who do have a good and legitimate use for self publishing or POD stigma by association.

The sentence in the opening paragraph of the Slushpile entry sums it up well:

In the right conditions, handled properly, with realistic attitudes, self-publishing can be a viable business decision for certain people.

There are well-documented uses for self publishing and POD, particularly in niche markets. If a writer has a specific book that meets a specific need that either is very small or not yet recognized, then self-publishing can be a good way to meet the need forever, or to establish that there is a need to those who don’t yet recognize it. An example of the former is a writer whose book about a local wartime event was sold through the local historical society. There was a small, steady local demand. An example of the latter is the writer who commented at Slushpile about a series of Harlequin-type romances for gay men. Self publishing helped prove there was a demand, and earned a contract with a mainstream publisher.

But most writers, and here I include myself, should keep writing, keep trying to improve their writing, and keep trying to get that writing published by a regular publisher.