Ilsa J. Bick's Blog, page 38

April 2011 Recommended Reads, Listens and Looks

I was insanely busy this past month, but this seems to be my new norm and the month to come–what with the BEA and family stuff in addition to buffing and spiffing a new book to send out and drafting the outline for the next (a standalone, I'm thinking) and putting up some of my stories online–promises to be just as packed.  Oh, and there's the garden to plant . . .

When I stand back, I read a fair amount this past month: across genres, a bunch of award-nominees, the whole nine yards. Unfortunately, far too many books–reads and listens–got my 20% treatment, and some not even that.  Might have been my mood, but I don't think so–mainly because I'm STILL struggling through one audiobook not because it is the best this author's ever produced (it isn't; the plot is overly long and plodding and could've used a little time with a weed-whacker) or the narration is so wonderful (it's not, and what really KILLS me is that the narrator seems to have bought into the axiom that a Southern accent equals a ten point drop in IQ–and the story takes place in the far northeastern part of the US) but because, as always, I firmly believe this author has something of value to teach.   So I listen in chunks until I'm just so frustrated or there's something SO SILLY that it's all I can do not to break the iPod–and then I walk away until I calm down.

Really, I think my lack of great April reads and listens was just luck of the draw.  Maybe next month.

But, without further ado:

 

READS

Draper, Susan; Out of My Mind (Atheneum; 2010).  My librarian recommended this little gem.  11-yo Melody is one of those very brainy kids who'd probably have a hard time fitting in under the best of circumstances.  Now, throw in that she has cerebral palsy, is confined to a wheelchair, has limited body control (her thumb, principally), is mute and unable to let people know just exactly how smart she is (even the docs think she's profoundly retarded)–and you might have had the recipe for a treacly affliction-of-the-week narrative.  Wrong-o.  When Melody's family outfits her with a computer and the girl begins to peck out her thoughts, a thumb-stroke at a time, then the book takes off, with some unexpected, highly believable turns on the way.  Because Melody is REALLY smart–smart enough to be transitioned out of special ed and mainstreamed; smart enough to make her school's quiz team; smart enough to go with her team to a national competition–and not yet smart enough to understand that people can mouth all the right words and still break your heart.  I won't give away the rest of this book, but this is a fast, immensely entertaining read that is, in its way, as brutal and unflinching as . . . well, real life.  Give it a go.

Grant, Michael; Plague: A Gone Novel (Katherine Tegen Books, 2011).  If you've been following this series, you know that things are going from bad to worse to downright AWFUL in the FAYZ–and I'll bet you're loving every second of it.  There's no easy way to summarize this penultimate installment, but suffice to say that the usual cast of bad actors make their reappearance; the food's just about gone and so is most of the water; Sam and Astrid are having major relationship issues (Grant doesn't believe in sugar-coating a thing, and so not only is there a fair amount of violence, but sex becomes a huge issue–which, if you're talking a bunch of isolated teens, makes all kinds of sense); and Little Pete–both the author of the FAYZ and its potential savior–gets a fair amount of play.  Personally, I enjoyed this more than the previous book, which felt a bit like a placeholder, and think the plot clearly advanced the overall narrative.  I'm looking forward to–and dreading–the last book in this series because. . . because . . . THERE WON'T BE ANY MORE!!!   NOOOOOO!

Northrop, Michael; Trapped (Scholastic; 2011).  Take a blizzard.  Make it really bad.  Like, storm of the century bad.  Throw in seven kids, not all of whom are friends, and strand them in the high school.  Now, make sure they have no power, no way out, no ability to let anyone even know where they are.  Stir and stand back–and you have the makings for a potentially fascinating book on the individual and group dynamics of survival.  This was a great premise–and yet I kind of hesitated to recommend this because while parts of it are very, very good, others are incredibly under-developed.  The book ended much too early and didn't exactly resolve (I'm not saying I want things spelled out; I live with ambiguity just fine) so much as simply stop–as if the author had run out of ideas. This reads much more like the idea for a great book–almost a novella, really–and there was a lot to explore here, so much so that this should've been a bigger, better fleshed-out, much more compelling read.  It's not; a few characters with promise aren't given much play at all (and one is downright superfluous; the story would've been the same without him); and I was a little bothered by how passive the girls were, how the group dynamics didn't quite ring true . . . stuff like that.  Still, this is well-written and nicely paced and very fast, so worth the time.

 

LISTENS

Nothing.  Blah.  Bad month.

 

LOOKS

The Killing (Vena Sud; 2011; AMC) Based on a Danish series, this handsome and thoroughly absorbing mystery has been moved to Seattle and centers on the murder investigation of seventeen year-old Rosie Larson.  Now, clearly, the series' sensibilities–grim, bleak, a tad too deliberate–are driven, in part, by the popularity of the Stieg Larssen books (and one does wonder if the writers were being a bit coy with last names here).  We all know that a murder is just the starting point for a series like this; the investigation, backstories and reveals drive the narrative and everyone has a secret.  While I sometimes wish the thing would move along already (it does tend to be a bit plodding and draaaawwwwnnnn-oooouuuuuttttt and yeah, yeah, I got it, I got it, I got it already; some elements I see coming for miles), the best mysteries are like spiderwebs: there's the hub, and then there are the strands, each expertly woven and independent of one another–and yet inextricably linked.  Disturb a single strand and the whole delicate structure falls apart.   What I do wonder is whether this series can really sustain itself over the long haul.  It's the way I felt about In Treatment, I suppose: another import (from Israel), IT's first season was great even if a bit of a busman's holiday, and then I lost interest because I pretty much knew where things were headed and the principal protag's problems just weren't that absorbing.  Same thing here: the characters are as bland, bleached and monotonal as a rainy Seattle day; I really don't "care" about any of these characters–which is weird, for a murder about a kid, but the emotional impact is curiously muted here–as much as I enjoy the mental gymnastics.  Still, if you're tired of having your murder mysteries conveniently wrapped up in 45 minutes and change–where all the forensics comes back in record time–then give the series a chance.

 

 

Source Code (Duncan Jones; 2011).  Gosh, I loved this movie.  Jake Gyllenhaal is Captain Colter Stevens, a helicopter pilot who wakes up after a mission in Afghanistan only to find himself in another man's body and on a train that's already been blown to smithereens.  Now, watch as Stevens keeps being rebooted (big reveal there) into the same eight minutes of the past (just before the bomb goes off); and all those people he's trying so hard to save are already dead–oh, and he meets this really sweet, cute, perky girl.  Where can this go and what will it do when it gets there?  Ah, that's the fun.  Now, never mind that the movie doesn't make sense; that if you don't get it in the first twenty minutes, there is no hope; that there's enough physico-science-techie babble that I kept expecting a Trek character to beam in and suggest a tachyon beam .  This movie is everything that Inception was not: just plain fun and good film-making; a briskly paced thrill-ride with just enough romance so you know the happy ending is never really in doubt.  It's a premise I wish I'd thought of first,  darn it.

Until They All Come Home

As many of you know by now, two prominent photojournalists–Tim Hetherington and Chris Hondros –were killed in Libya this past week.  You've probably seen their pictures without knowing who they were; if you've watched Restrepo–and if you still haven't, shame on you; what are you waiting for: an engraved invitation?–then you've got a fine sense of the risks war correspondents run.  Why they do it is, I suspect, as individual and varied as the journalists themselves, although Joao Silva, a photojournalist for The New York Times who lost both legs last October while covering the war in Afghanistan, had this to say to Fresh Air's Terry Gross:

Mr. SILVA: You know, I have this fascination and, you know, to be on the cutting edge of history, witness history firsthand, you know, making documentation of it and somehow be productive in society by doing so. I've always wanted to show those that are fortunate enough not to live in a warzone the realities or, you know, certain realities of warzones, which is ultimately the point, you know. We go out and we expose ourselves, you know, believing that somehow, we have an impact on society. For the most part, we don't.

You know, people are more interested in getting their iPad 2 and all that kind of crap than what goes on in Afghanistan and Iraq. But, you know, I've always believed that if you actually, you know, managed to change one single person's mind, or at least inform one single person, then you've accomplished something. So, yeah, you know, we're not changing the world out there with pictures, but we're certainly trying to inform the world. So, yeah. That's basically it.

If you've been awake these past few years, you know Silva's work:

 

And if South Africa blew you by, then let Marinovich's Pulitzer prize-winner of a young boy being macheted as he is burning to death refresh your memory:

Do listen to the program in its entirety, too;  Gross also talks to Marinovitch, who co-authored The Bang Bang Club with Silva. The book documents their experiences covering the fall of Apartheid from Mandela's release in 1990 to free elections in 1994.  Of the four photojournalists who formed the Bang Bang Club, two are dead.  Ken Oosterbroeck was killed in 1994 in the same incident in which Marinovich was badly injured.  Kevin Carter, who took this haunting Pulitzer-winning photograph of an emaciated Sudanese girl struggling to save herself as a vulture patiently waits, committed suicide:

The movie of that book was also released this week.

Regardless of a correspondent's motives–and I suspect there's more to it than simply or only bearing witness just as there are many reasons kids volunteer for the military–war correspondents must be, as a bunch, a very interesting group of people. Some, like Hemingway or–hang onto your hat–Al Gore, become famous for different reasons.  What should surprise no one is that the same problems soldiers face–increased rates of substance abuse, depression and PTSD–also affect war correspondents as this nearly decade-old study published in the American Journal of Psychiatry concludes.

Kevin Carter said it much more baldly in his suicide note:

The pain of life overrides the joy to the point that joy does not exist . . . I am haunted by the vivid memories of killings and corpses and anger and pain  . . . of starving or wounded children, of trigger-happy madmen, often police, of killer executioners . . .

I don't pretend to understand the ethical divide journalists must struggle with; Sebastian Junger talks about this in War just as Marinovich and Silva do in their book. But one reviewer posed this fabulous question about The Bang Bang Club:  Does a film with handsome actors and beautiful images of terrible events glamorize misery, or does it introduce a little-known calamity to a wider audience?

I don't pretend to know the answer to that one either.  I suspect there is no one "right" answer.  In a way, you could ask the same question of another terrific film, Under Fire (Roger Spottiswoode; 1997), a portion of which is based on a real event: the 1979 shooting of ABC reporter Bill Stewart by a Somoza soldier. In that instance, public outrage was enough to force our government to come out openly against Somoza and, as they say, the rest is history. While the movie version of the incident isn't exact–Stewart was forced to the ground and then shot–you get the gist.

I doubt the same will happen here, of course.  The situations are different; Stewart was murdered with a bullet to the back of the head; Hetherington and Hondros were killed by shrapnel from rocket-propelled grenades.  All were casualties; all were, because of their jobs, celebrities in a way.  I think what saddens me is that what happened to Hetherington and Hondros was no different than what has happened–and continues to happen–to thousands of American soldiers who remain faceless except to their families and friends.  They may make the evening newscast–a brief snapshot–or a mention in the local paper, but that is all because they're not celebrities.

They're only our soldiers.

I don't know exactly what I'm groping toward here, but I think I'm bothered by how easily we seem to be going about our lives while remaining relatively ignorant–and apathetic–about what's going on with the soldiers we would depend on to protect us if someone should, G-d forbid, attack the U.S.  That is, the wars are over there and far away; ask the average Jane if she even knows what the two war ops are called, and chances are that she won't.  For all of you busily taking that quiz, they're Operation New Dawn (Iraq) and Operation Enduring Freedom (Afghanistan)–and don't be surprised if you didn't know.  The Obama administration went for New Dawn in early 2010 and as this article makes clear, name changes are common.

Which is a little troubling, if you ask me.  I can just hear the spin-docs now: Look, it's all about packaging . . .

But, you know, a wormy rose by any other name will still stink, and no matter what the name, when there's no personal investment or sense of shared mission, purpose or sacrifice, then it's very easy to simply not care.

I have this bracelet I got a while back that I almost always wear.  It's stainless steel and so quite reflective, but here's a decent picture of what it looks like:

Mine's not quite the same. I opted for one that reads:

OND & OEF

UNTIL THEY ALL COME HOME

Because I was in the Air Force, I opted for that seal on the left and an American flag on the right.

Now, do I wear this because I'm a right-wingnut?  No.  Anyone who knows me understands that I'm a left-wingnut.  I wear this bracelet for a couple of different reasons.  One's pretty straightforward; the bracelet is a symbol of my respect and support, and part of the money goes to charities for families of heroes and victims of terrorism.  Two, the bracelet forces me, every now and again, to think about what more I should or could do.

But, thirdly, the bracelet makes other people curious.  I opted for initials instead of having everything spelled out so that people would ask what OND and OEF mean, and I get those questions, maybe, twice a week.  And that means I've forced two more people to slow down and think–about our soldiers, about where our fellow citizens are, about whose boots are on the ground. (By the way, if you don't think we've got boots on the ground in Libya, guess again.  Who, exactly, do you think is calling in those Predator drones?)

So, in a way, I wear the bracelet . . . for you.  To prompt you to ask me the questions–so you slow down and remember them.

You should think about Hetherington and Hondros, but you should ask the questions and examine the emotions they and their fellow journalists elicit with their work.  You should slow down. 

Hondros

You should think.

Hetherington

You should remember.

A Sherwin-Williams Moment

When I was a kid, I had this friend who lived in this completely cool house, one that had a stream flowing through it.  It was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen.  (My friend was a nice guy, too, but–sadly–I really dug the house more.) That house stayed with me, too, so much so that when we found this fabulous place in Texas–a house designed in the round with two live oaks growing in an atrium at the very center–it was a complete no-brainer.  Leaving houses hasn't been all that tough for me–but that was one I hated to see in my rear-view.  If I could build something like that where I am now, I would.

I thought about that house again when I visited Seattle last week.  Cities, especially big ones, make me uneasy.  They always have, and this isn't a slam; I just refer country and open spaces more.   But I was never sure exactly why.  Yes, they're crowded; there's a lot of hustle and bustle and more crime and blah, blah, blah.  I always breathe a big sigh of relief when, after leaving the Milwaukee airport, we've finally past the suburbs and into country and long stretches of nothing but farmland hemmed on the east by the lake.

But it's also so bizarre because there are many things in cities that I enjoy and hate not having around: museums, theater, history, cool restaurants.  Starbucks.  High-speed internet.  Things like that.  I have a ton of friends and relatives who adore cities, but I would never choose to live in one.  Just can't breathe.  I know people who marvel at buildings, but I think you can't beat a volcano or a really great mountain; the Painted Cliffs off Lake Superior; the Grand Canyon . . . you get my drift.

I think it finally dawned on me why I'm so uneasy when I happened to find myself in Seattle last week.  Again, this is not a slam against Seattle per se, but as we were driving between that city and Tacoma, I was struck by how all the roads and buildings–the concrete and glass and asphalt–were like this solid mass that flowed over the hills right down to the sea.

It was Asimov–one of the books in the Foundation Trilogy, if I'm not mistaken–who said pretty much the same thing in a slightly different way.  If I'm remembering this right, we get a ship's-eye view of the Earth, from which all life is pretty much gone, and Asimov writes about how the Earth is nothing but a tired, used-up, brown and gray ball of man-made structures: buildings and roads and all of it dead as a doornail.

That resonates with me.  I've always felt more comfortable and peaceful when there's clean air, lots of trees, mountains, water, and space–and I guess I worry when I see it going away, shrinking, being covered over.   Way back when, one of the most upsetting films I saw was Silent Running. If you've never seen this classic SF film, directed by Douglas Trumbull (who also created the special effects for 2001) and starring Bruce Dern, do so.  Not only is the music great (Peter Schickele, taking a break from PDQ Bach), but I defy anyone to watch this story of a man who is, as one YouTuber put it, an intergalactic treehugger tending Earth's last remaining nature reserves preserved in domes on spaceships, and not get at least a little choked up (and the songs by Joan Baez are just so damned good, especially if you really listen to what she's saying).

Edgar Wright does a great synopsis, too (and, yeah, I still cry like a baby whenever I see this film).

When you get right down to it, cities are shells.   Sherwin-Williams might own the trademark, but we all do it.

Cities cover the Earth.  They conquer it, obscuring the land; they encase it; they obliterate it.  Sure, you've got trees and lawns–sometimes; fly over New York and there's nothing but concrete and asphalt and then the green of Central Park.  But when you look at a city that marches right to the limits of the land and butts up against water–places like Chicago and Seattle and Portland, New York, etc.–that's when you really see how they're layered over and not part of the Earth.

That scares me.  It should scare you because there aren't fewer of us by any stretch, and as we continue to treat all other species as if only our needs matter, things aren't getting better.  The governor of my state is talking about cutting recycling programs, surely a misguided, shortsighted move that demonstrates a most profound disconnect and just a touch of arrogance: that who we are is independent of where and how we live.  Environmental programs, never popular, are in even worse shape now; no one seems to get that a healthy life goes hand in hand with a healthy environment.

In the film, Bruce Dern talks about how sad it is that a child will never know the wonder of a leaf.   I'm grateful I have the luxury.

A Sherman-Williams Moment

When I was a kid, I had this friend who lived in this completely cool house, one that had a stream flowing through it.  It was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen.  (My friend was a nice guy, too, but–sadly–I really dug the house more.) That house stayed with me, too, so much so that when we found this fabulous place in Texas–a house designed in the round with two live oaks growing in an atrium at the very center–it was a complete no-brainer.  Leaving houses hasn't been all that tough for me–but that was one I hated to see in my rear-view.  If I could build something like that where I am now, I would.

I thought about that house again when I visited Seattle last week.  Cities, especially big ones, make me uneasy.  They always have, and this isn't a slam; I just refer country and open spaces more.   But I was never sure exactly why.  Yes, they're crowded; there's a lot of hustle and bustle and more crime and blah, blah, blah.  I always breathe a big sigh of relief when, after leaving the Milwaukee airport, we've finally past the suburbs and into country and long stretches of nothing but farmland hemmed on the east by the lake.

But it's also so bizarre because there are many things in cities that I enjoy and hate not having around: museums, theater, history, cool restaurants.  Starbucks.  High-speed internet.  Things like that.  I have a ton of friends and relatives who adore cities, but I would never choose to live in one.  Just can't breathe.  I know people who marvel at buildings, but I think you can't beat a volcano or a really great mountain; the Painted Cliffs off Lake Superior; the Grand Canyon . . . you get my drift.

I think it finally dawned on me why I'm so uneasy when I happened to find myself in Seattle last week.  Again, this is not a slam against Seattle per se, but as we were driving between that city and Tacoma, I was struck by how all the roads and buildings–the concrete and glass and asphalt–were like this solid mass that flowed over the hills right down to the sea.

It was Asimov–one of the books in the Foundation Trilogy, if I'm not mistaken–who said pretty much the same thing in a slightly different way.  If I'm remembering this right, we get a ship's-eye view of the Earth, from which all life is pretty much gone, and Asimov writes about how the Earth is nothing but a tired, used-up, brown and gray ball of man-made structures: buildings and roads and all of it dead as a doornail.

That resonates with me.  I've always felt more comfortable and peaceful when there's clean air, lots of trees, mountains, water, and space–and I guess I worry when I see it going away, shrinking, being covered over.   Way back when, one of the most upsetting films I saw was Silent Running. If you've never seen this classic SF film, directed by Douglas Trumbull (who also created the special effects for 2001) and starring Bruce Dern, do so.  Not only is the music great (Peter Schickele, taking a break from PDQ Bach), but I defy anyone to watch this story of a man who is, as one YouTuber put it, an intergalactic treehugger tending Earth's last remaining nature reserves preserved in domes on spaceships, and not get at least a little choked up (and the songs by Joan Baez are just so damned good, especially if you really listen to what she's saying).

Edgar Wright does a great synopsis, too (and, yeah, I still cry like a baby whenever I see this film).

When you get right down to it, cities are shells.   Sherman-Williams might own the trademark, but we all do it.

Cities cover the Earth.  They conquer it, obscuring the land; they encase it; they obliterate it.  Sure, you've got trees and lawns–sometimes; fly over New York and there's nothing but concrete and asphalt and then the green of Central Park.  But when you look at a city that marches right to the limits of the land and butts up against water–places like Chicago and Seattle and Portland, New York, etc.–that's when you really see how they're layered over and not part of the Earth.

That scares me.  It should scare you because there aren't fewer of us by any stretch, and as we continue to treat all other species as if only our needs matter, things aren't getting better.  The governor of my state is talking about cutting recycling programs, surely a misguided, shortsighted move that demonstrates a most profound disconnect and just a touch of arrogance: that who we are is independent of where and how we live.  Environmental programs, never popular, are in even worse shape now; no one seems to get that a healthy life goes hand in hand with a healthy environment.

In the film, Bruce Dern talks about how sad it is that a child will never know the wonder of a leaf.   I'm grateful I have the luxury.

March 2011 Recommended Reads, Listens and Looks

Well, I didn't have the most productive month in terms of reading or anything else that wasn't intimately related to ASHES.  My head was buried first in the sequel and then in the ASHES galley edits themselves.  Not that I didn't try to read a fair amount, but I lost patience pretty quickly with just about everything.  Part of that was justified–some of the books (including a bestseller from an author I normally like) and listens were downright bad–but I figure that, for some others, I was just too tired to relax and be fair.  So some of those books I'll try again this month and see what happens.  Worst case scenario: I was right the first time around.

READS

Bray, Libba; Beauty Queens (Scholastic; 2011).  Yes; I got my hands on an ARC, so lucky me!  Cross Survivor with Lost and substitute beauty pageant contestants for Kate, Jack and Sawyer, and you've got the premise for this at-times laugh-out-loud book.  Bray's irreverence and wickedly sharp (tongued) sense of humor sparkle throughout this novel, which she's also spiced up with over-the-top diversions (strategically-placed commercial spots, contestant interviews and applications, to name just a few).  All these devices do get a little wearing after awhile and some of the humor feels forced (like, enough already), but this is still a fun read.  And not all is sweetness and light; Bray also manages to tackle lesbian and transgender issues.  Oh, and there's a body count.   A fast and entertaining read.

Egan, Timothy; The Big Burn: Teddy Roosevelt and the Fire that Saved America (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt; 2009).  I knew a little about Roosevelt's passion for conservation but absolutely nothing about the Forest Service when I picked up this book on the recommendation of a friend.  I also knew nothing about the spectacular 1910 fire that raged through much of Montana, Idaho and Washington: a watershed moment for the fledgling Forest Service which was despised by capitalists (and the Taft administration) bent on taking back public lands for private gain.  This story follows the heroic efforts, in the face of nearly impossible odds, of an undermanned and underfunded Forest Service and the men and women who fought a blaze that eventually consumed three million acres (an area the size of Connecticut).  The spring and summer of 1910 had all the makings for the perfect storm of a fire–and in the end, it was the coming of winter and snow that put an end to this horror.  Having just gone to Yellowstone this past fall and seen a fire in progress, I can only imagine how bad this was–and the Big Burn wasn't even the worst forest fire in U.S. history.  This haunting image of elk seeking refuge in a river from a firestorm in Montana's Bitterroot Mountains was captured by John MacColgan, a fire behavior analyst, in 2004.

 

Oliver, Lauren; Before I Fall (HarperCollins; 2010).  Okay, I'll say right off the bat that I expected to hate this.  I'm not even sure why I picked it up in the first place.  I have very little patience for snarky high school girl books.  But the premise–the kind of narrative you'd expect if Groundhog Day had been made for teens and without the happy ending–was intriguing.  So I gave it a whirl.  I still didn't care for the heroine so much, even at the end, or her friends.  The book went on a bit too long; the episode with the little sister and mother felt tacked on, especially since everything else revolved around school and the heroine's friends.  But the writing is very solid; the romance elements superbly done; and the redemptive end worth the price of admission. And did I tear up? Oh, yeah, you bet I did. That part of the book really felt true.

 

Sedgwick, Marcus; Revolver (Roaring Brook Press; 2009).  Don't ask me why I picked this up; I couldn't tell you, especially since this historical mystery, set beyond the Arctic Circle at the height of the Alaskan Gold Rush, is geared toward younger readers.  After discovering his father's frozen body on the ice not a mile from their cabin, 14-year-old Sig Andersson waits alone while his sister and stepmother go for help.  Someone arrives, but Sig will find no comfort or help coming from Gunter Wolff, who claims that Sig's dead father has cheated him out his share of stolen gold.  And just what exactly killed Sig's mother almost a decade ago?  If Jack London springs to mind, the comparison's apt.  Sedgwick has crafted a very fine, zippy, completely atmospheric, rigorously plotted mystery.  This is a short book whose pages just fly.

 

LISTENS

Ward, Rachel; Numbers (narrated by Sarah Coomes; Brilliance Audio, 2010). 15-year-old Jem has an unusual and terrible gift: the ability to look into someone's eyes and see the date of their death.  Having isolated herself following the death of her drug-addict mother, she forms an unlikely friendship with Spider, another freakish misfit, even though she knows that he only has a few months to live.  One afternoon as the pair visit the London Eye, Jem realizes that many there will die that very day.  In the aftermath of a terrorist attack on the Eye, Jem and Spider go on the run–and then the narrative starts to lose a bit of its coherence (at least, for me).  This is ultimately a story about fate and free will, with fate holding all the cards.  As such, this isn't the most satisfying listen/read and the end is fairly predictable.  Still, once you get used to the accent, the narrator makes an already brisk tale breathless.

 

LOOKS

Can you believe that I didn't see a single first-run movie this past month that I can recommend?  Not a one.  But all was not lost.  I did discover a show that, paradoxically, ended: Big Love (HBO).  I'd heard about this show off and on for the last five years, and while I do like Bill Paxton, the subject–a Mormon polygamist's tussles with his three wives–just didn't interest me.

But, for whatever reason, I happened to flip past the next-to-last episode of the series–and I was really intrigued.  I saw the series finale and thought: What an idiot I've been.

Thank heavens for DVDs.  This is a very fine series that examines some pretty serious issues, of which polygamy is–in the end–a bit of a red herring; it's integral to the plot but not the only elephant in the room.  Gender inequality, children's duty toward parents (and vice versa), and when traditions deserve to die are only some of the issues this series tackles.  I'm only through Season One but looking forward to more.

Stargate Universe (SyFy).  I'm going to say it straight out: this show just keeps getting better and does not deserve to die.  I have to admit that I had my doubts, but almost every show takes time to find itself and gain its footing.  This iteration in the SG franchise–which follows a group of scientists, civilians and soldiers stranded on the Destiny, an intergalactic vessel on a seemingly endless mission as prescribed by the Ancients millenia ago–was/is far bleaker and grittier than its predecessors and clearly influenced by the success of Battlestar Galactica.  That is both good and bad; when BSG was good, it was fabulous, but it, too, lost its way somewhere around the beginning of Season 3 and simply got tedious.  What BSG proved, though, was that there are grown-ups in the room.  SGU tried to follow suit, but I think it's tough to expect an audience which loved shows like SG-1 and Stargate Atlantis to shift gears so drastically.  A pity.  (Although, yeah, the shows has problems when I still can't remember the names of a bunch of the characters–and don't care either.)  There are, what, six episodes left?  So, forty in all.  When this ends in May (and I hear that it's a doozy of a cliffhanger, which will just drive me insane forever . . . kind of how I felt when NBC cancelled My Own Worst Enemy, which was a FABULOUS Christian Slater show), do yourself a favor and see it on DVD.  I'll tell you right now: Season 2 is better than 1, but you won't "get it" if you don't watch from the beginning.

And just for fun, do see the original movie with James Spader and Kurt Russell (and Jay Davidson, post-1992′s The Crying Game). I still love it.

Come to think of it, The Crying Game deserves a look-see, too. This stylish thriller examines gender and sexuality against the backdrop of the Irish Troubles and also stars Forrest Whitaker and Stephen Rea. A superb film.

March 2011 Reads, Listens and Looks

Well, I didn't have the most productive month in terms of reading or anything else.  My head was buried first in the sequel to ASHES and then in the ASHES galley edits themselves.  Not that I didn't try to read a fair amount, but I lost patience pretty quickly with just about everything.  Part of that was justified–some of the books (including a bestseller from an author I normally like) and listens were downright bad–but I figure that, for some others, I was just too tired to relax and be fair.  So some of those books I'll try again this month and see what happens.  Worst case scenario: I was right the first time around.

READS

Bray, Libba; Beauty Queens (Scholastic; 2011).  Yes; I got my hands on an ARC, so lucky me!  Cross Survivor with Lost and substitute beauty pageant contestants for Kate, Jack and Sawyer, and you've got the premise for this at-times laugh-out-loud book.  Bray's irreverence and wickedly sharp (tongued) sense of humor sparkle throughout this novel, which she's also spiced up with over-the-top diversions (strategically-placed commercial spots, contestant interviews and applications, to name just a few).  All these devices do get a little wearing after awhile and some of the humor feels forced (like, enough already), but this is still a fun read.  And not all is sweetness and light; Bray also manages to tackle lesbian and transgender issues.  Oh, and there's a body count.   A fast and entertaining read.

Egan, Timothy; The Big Burn: Teddy Roosevelt and the Fire that Saved America (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt; 2009).  I knew a little about Roosevelt's passion for conservation but absolutely nothing about the Forest Service when I picked up this book on the recommendation of a friend.  I also knew nothing about the spectacular 1910 fire that raged through much of Montana, Idaho and Washington: a watershed moment for the fledgling Forest Service which was despised by capitalists (and the Taft administration) bent on taking back public lands for private gain.  This story follows the heroic efforts, in the face of nearly impossible odds, of an undermanned and underfunded Forest Service and the men and women who fought a blaze that eventually consumed three million acres (an area the size of Connecticut).  The spring and summer of 1910 had all the makings for the perfect storm of a fire–and in the end, it was the coming of winter and snow that put an end to this horror.  Having just gone to Yellowstone this past fall and seen a fire in progress, I can only imagine how bad this was–and the Big Burn wasn't even the worst forest fire in U.S. history.  This haunting image of elk seeking refuge in a river from a firestorm in Montana's Bitterroot Mountains was captured by John MacColgan, a fire behavior analyst, in 2004.

 

Oliver, Lauren; Before I Fall (HarperCollins; 2010).  Okay, I'll say right off the bat that I expected to hate this.  I'm not even sure why I picked it up in the first place.  I have very little patience for snarky high school girl books.  But the premise–the kind of narrative you'd expect if Groundhog Day had been made for teens and without the happy ending–was intriguing.  So I gave it a whirl.  I still didn't care for the heroine so much, even at the end, or her friends.  The book went on a bit too long; the episode with the little sister and mother felt tacked on, especially since everything else revolved around school and the heroine's friends.  But the writing is very solid; the romance elements superbly done; and the redemptive end worth the price of admission. And did I tear up? Oh, yeah, you bet I did. That part of the book really felt true.

 

Sedgwick, Marcus; Revolver (Roaring Brook Press; 2009).  Don't ask me why I picked this up; I couldn't tell you, especially since this historical mystery, set beyond the Arctic Circle at the height of the Alaskan Gold Rush, is geared toward younger readers.  After discovering his father's frozen body on the ice not a mile from their cabin, 14-year-old Sig Andersson waits alone while his sister and stepmother go for help.  Someone arrives, but Sig will find no comfort or help coming from Gunter Wolff, who claims that Sig's dead father has cheated him out his share of stolen gold.  And just what exactly killed Sig's mother almost a decade ago?  If Jack London springs to mind, the comparison's apt.  Sedgwick has crafted a very fine, zippy, completely atmospheric, rigorously plotted mystery.  This is a short book whose pages just fly.

 

LISTENS

Ward, Rachel; Numbers (narrated by Sarah Coomes; Brilliance Audio, 2010). 15-year-old Jem has an unusual and terrible gift: the ability to look into someone's eyes and see the date of their death.  Having isolated herself following the death of her drug-addict mother, she forms an unlikely friendship with Spider, another freakish misfit, even though she knows that he only has a few months to live.  One afternoon as the pair visit the London Eye, Jem realizes that many there will die that very day.  In the aftermath of a terrorist attack on the Eye, Jem and Spider go on the run–and then the narrative starts to lose a bit of its coherence (at least, for me).  This is ultimately a story about fate and free will, with fate holding all the cards.  As such, this isn't the most satisfying listen/read and the end is fairly predictable.  Still, once you get used to the accent, the narrator makes an already brisk tale breathless.

 

LOOKS

Can you believe that I didn't see a single first-run movie this past month that I can recommend?  Not a one.  But all was not lost.  I did discover a show that, paradoxically, ended: Big Love (HBO).  I'd heard about this show off and on for the last five years, and while I do like Bill Paxton, the subject–a Mormon polygamist's tussles with his three wives–just didn't interest me.

But, for whatever reason, I happened to flip past the next-to-last episode of the series–and I was really intrigued.  I saw the series finale and thought: What an idiot I've been.

Thank heavens for DVDs.  This is a very fine series that examines some pretty serious issues, of which polygamy is–in the end–a bit of a red herring; it's integral to the plot but not the only elephant in the room.  Gender inequality, children's duty toward parents (and vice versa), and when traditions deserve to die are only some of the issues this series tackles.  I'm only through Season One but looking forward to more.

Stargate Universe (SyFy).  I'm going to say it straight out: this show just keeps getting better and does not deserve to die.  I have to admit that I had my doubts, but almost every show takes time to find itself and gain its footing.  This iteration in the SG franchise–which follows a group of scientists, civilians and soldiers stranded on the Destiny, an intergalactic vessel on a seemingly endless mission as prescribed by the Ancients millenia ago–was/is far bleaker and grittier than its predecessors and clearly influenced by the success of Battlestar Galactica.  That is both good and bad; when BSG was good, it was fabulous, but it, too, lost its way somewhere around the beginning of Season 3 and simply got tedious.  What BSG proved, though, was that there are grown-ups in the room.  SGU tried to follow suit, but I think it's tough to expect an audience which loved shows like SG-1 and Stargate Atlantis to shift gears so drastically.  A pity.  (Although, yeah, the shows has problems when I still can't remember the names of a bunch of the characters–and don't care either.)  There are, what, six episodes left?  So, forty in all.  When this ends in May (and I hear that it's a doozy of a cliffhanger, which will just drive me insane forever . . . kind of how I felt when NBC cancelled My Own Worst Enemy, which was a FABULOUS Christian Slater show), do yourself a favor and see it on DVD.  I'll tell you right now: Season 2 is better than 1, but you won't "get it" if you don't watch from the beginning.

And just for fun, do see the original movie with James Spader and Kurt Russell (and Jay Davidson, post-1992′s The Crying Game). I still love it.

Come to think of it, The Crying Game deserves a look-see, too. This stylish thriller examines gender and sexuality against the backdrop of the Irish Troubles and also stars Forrest Whitaker and Stephen Rea. A superb film.

Oh-So-Ready For Her Close-Up

When I was a kid, my dad took pictures all the time and then did a slide-show, usually after a vacation or a summer or something like that. Now these were real slide-shows, the ancient Kodak carousel-type, with small squares of, yes, celluloid mounted in either cardboard or plastic. (My dad was and still is an inveterate camera-guy; he must have umpteen trillion slides. Some are so old, they're starting to get that reddish tinge, which happens as the dyes begin to degrade. Some images are vanishing altogether. Sometimes, I have half a mind to grab those slides and get them scanned or corrected or whatever, just to hang onto that piece of my past a little longer.)

Anyway, I remember LOVING those shows, especially when I got a little older–say, early teens. There was something about seeing myself as a little kid (yes, even that embarrassing baby shot) that I found fascinating.  I don't mean to say that I was, like, oh, wow, look at me. It wasn't really narcissistic; it was more . . . GAWD, that was me? If you understand what I'm saying.

I don't know when that–the ability to see a picture of myself and not cringe–changed, but it did.  Maybe it was the moment dad showed pictures of me as a 12-year-old to a crowd of strangers at my brother's rehearsal dinner and my husband turned to me and said, ever-so-sensitively, "Wow, you were fat when you were a kid."

Uhm . . . ow?

So the long and the short of it is: I really don't like posing for pictures or looking at myself in pictures.  I have a goofy smile; my eyes are lopsided; yada, yada, yada.  Now, this is coming from a woman who has no trouble with public speaking whatsoever; has done a ton of theater and forensics; and at times can be, yes, a bit of a ham.  But have my picture taken?  Ugh.  Get that camera out of my face.   Really, there are far more beautiful people in the world.

Which made my television interview earlier this week kind of challenging.

I really wasn't nervous, per se.  I know I can speak to just about anyone; getting information and talking to people is kind of essential for any shrink.  It was the fretting about stupid stuff–my hair, what color shirt I should wear, do I do lipstick–that got to me.  I must've stood in my closet for ten minutes staring at shirts and hating each and every one, probably because I'd been staring at and wearing the same turtlenecks and sweaters all bloody winter (and it's been kind of a long one; we got snow twice this week!).  I finally ran out and bought the most colorful tunic I could find, like, two hours before the interviewer and cameraman were set to arrive.  And, yes, I put on lipstick and even toyed with the idea of finding some kind of color wand to get rid of the bloody gray at my temples.  Then, I thought: Whoa, babe, get a grip.  DeMille, this isn't.

Now, being interviewed for television is pretty interesting and different than a newspaper interview where whatever's written is colored by whether or not the reporter correctly remembers what you said.  Of course, on TV, especially for a news spot, it's all about editing.   (I've been on TV only one time before–years ago, when I won the Writers of the Future thing–and there it was a full half-hour interview, spiced up with shots of the book, that kind of thing.  But whatever I said was what was aired.  No edits, no zippy camerawork.  Just me, myself and the interviewer.)  This time around, the interview lasted, maybe, fifteen, twenty minutes and we talked in the kitchen first simply because we were doing this at the house and they wanted some variety, a place where I don't spend the majority of my time.  (Not that we didn't talk a lot; we did–just not on camera.  In fact, the half hour talking after everything was done was really interesting: all about where publishing's going today, that kind of thing.)

Then, it was all camera-stuff: me at the computer, me talking about the books I've either written or had stories in, me wandering out to the compost pile.  (I'm sorry, but I have an irrational love for my bin.)  If I'd had hoeing to do, I'd have done that.  A bunch of wild turkey were in the backyard right as I wandered out–which is why I say, "Hi, guys" because that's what I always say to them.  (Sidebar: three are tame enough now that they'll kind of stand around waiting for the corn but, this time, they got one good look at the cameraman and took off.  Ditto the cats.)

When it was all over and they–the TV folks, not the turkeys–had left, I kind of despaired.  I mean, a compost bin?  And how interesting could shots of me typing be?  Crap, I have crummy fingers; I don't wear polish; my cuticles were ragged!  And my hair . . . I thought: OMG, this is going to be the most embarrassing, boring two minutes known to man.

So I didn't tell anyone about the interview, not my friends or extended family or, even, my parents.  The only people who knew were the husband and the kids (oh, and the woman who owns the store where I bought the shirt).  I just didn't want to inflict myself on anyone because, like I've said before, people who like and care about you will lie.  (Well, unless one is your husband marveling that, wow, you were sort of a pudge.)

Last night, when the segment aired . . . well, I was kind of staring through my fingers.  It was my brother's rehearsal dinner all over again.  So imagine my surprise when I discovered that the bit was quite nicely done: the piece was zippy, had some neat shots. (Hey, that's my cat!  And there are the kid's sneakers!  Wait, what's the cat's toy box doing in the frame?)  They managed to make me look halfway decent.  I even SOUND semi-articulate and that shirt does look nice.  Definitely something you wouldn't mind your mom seeing, you know?  Okay, the JK Rowling part was a little over the top, but–hey–from their mouth to G-d's ear because, yeah, I WANT people to read my books.  Why write them otherwise?

Unfortunately, although I saved this to a DVD, I have NO IDEA how to upload this to YouTube just yet, so all I have are links for now.  Anyway, enjoy.

The transcript:

http://www.todaystmj4.com/features/specialassignment/118682979.html

The TV spot:

http://www.todaystmj4.com/features/specialassignment/118682979.html?video=pop&t=a&bctid=CLIP_ID_1370705

Oh, and the best news for last: my husband didn't make a single crack about my waistline.  Clearly, the boy can be taught.

 

 

What's in a Name

One of the first things my Carolrhoda Lab editor said–beyond hello, I love this book, I must have it–was that, in his experience, titles always change.  I have to admit, I was surprised.  Sure, I can see that some titles are better than others; there are any number of articles out there about the best and worst movie/book titles.  But whatever title I've chosen is one I think that, at the time, best captures what the book's about– for me, at least.

Take Stalag Winter, for example.  I know what stalag I'm talking about; I know what "stalag" means.  But, as my editor astutely pointed out,  the title makes the book sound as if it's about a war (which it is, but only peripherally).  More importantly, though, he suggested that many people might not know what a "stalag" is.

Well, that blew me away.  After all, I know what a stalag is and I was going for this play on the idea that secrets are their own prison; the town has secrets; so, hello, the town's a prison, blah, blah, blah.  Now, as English-major-geek and interesting as that might be, though, would the title really grab anyone?

Now that I'm far away from that particular decision, the answer is . . . probably not.

Stalag eventually became DRAW THE DARK:  a perfect title that both grabs your attention and describes what the story's about.  Notice something else, too.  We used DRAW, not DRAWING or TO DRAW.  We went for an active verb and there's only one article and no conjunctions.  The idea was to go for immediacy and action.  To my mind, this is a much better title, one which highlights the importance of paying attention to your editor's gut.  Presumably, your editor was hired because the guy knows a) the market and b) how to read.  If your editor's bought your book, it's because he loves your work and wants to showcase it in the very best possible light.  Without my editor's input, I would've gone for a less effective title that might not have gotten as much traction as DRAW eventually did.

What this also means is that you (I) have to be flexible and open to editorial input, period.  That doesn't mean you always agree and/or what the editor thinks is right.  But it is important to take you, yourself and–yes–you out of the equation sometimes and try to see things from another point of view.  This is not about you; it's about making this the best bloody book you can.

I was challenged to do just that this past week. Now that I'm surfacing from sequel-mania, it's time to gear up for other work, most notably the first round of edits for my Spring 2012 book through Carolrhoda Lab, SWEET.

Only . . . you know . . . my editor just wasn't thrilled with the title.  (Okay, I got a little spoiled because ASHES stayed ASHES; but, in that case, the title is perfect.)  Thing is, I really liked SWEET.  I thought it was a great title and said exactly what I wanted people to think when they picked up the book.

Unfortunately, I was the only one who liked the title.   My editor suggested a bunch of alternatives; I hated them all; one that he particularly liked I thought was just too science-geeky.  Then I suggested a bunch, but except for one or two, I wasn't HEPPED about any of them.  While he was polite and professional and open-minded, we both knew my choices weren't right either.

Then a very wise woman–yes, my agent–took an informal poll.  Described the book and then listed all the titles we'd been tossing back and forth to a bunch of people who know a thing or two about this kind of stuff.  Well, wouldn't you know it but my editor's favorite–and her second favorite, by the way–was the title that won, hands down.  Like, it wasn't even a contest.

I was floored.  I mean, wow, I was THAT out of it?  Possibly.  I mean, my knickers were in a twist–and while a pro writer's allowed to have feelings, it's not PERSONAL.  It's not ABOUT YOU.  So why did I feel that it was?

This is where being a shrink comes in handy.  See, there's a reason the better shrinks get themselves shrunk (and it's not something that happens as much today as it did in my time, for all kinds of reasons).  For me, it was a condition of my analytic training.  You want to be an analyst?  Then you have to know what's your stuff versus what's the patient's.  Now, analysis is an angst-filled experience; I won't kid you about that.  You try staring at acoustical tile four hours a week for several years and see what happens.  But the reason you put up with it is that you have to be able to take a step back and see what you might be bringing to the dance.  The last thing any patient needs is your mess on top of what he/she's already dealing with.

So, looking back on it all and without getting all navel-gazey, I was just finishing up my own edits for SHADOWS, the sequel to ASHES; I'd spent two grueling weeks  working on pacing, getting all angsty over my characters, crying my eyes out and not sleeping very much.  Like, very not much: four hours, max, and most of it broken either with dreams (about the book) or awakenings when I bolted out of bed to go write down just one more thing.  So my brain was in SHADOWS overdrive and the rest of my life went to seed.  The cats were fed regularly, but they were the only ones who ate well.  We lived off soup, sandwiches and stew so old it had freezer burn.   If my poor, long-suffering husband was lucky, he got a terse hello when he got home after a hard day of slaving over a hot PCR machine.

In the end, I killed about 150 pages.  Now, that's a lot of words and a sizable chunk of book.  More to the point, I was kind of an emotional basket-case.  (News flash: This is nothing new.  I always kill a lot of pages.  I'm always an emotional basket-case when I finish a book.  After living with and in these characters' heads for the duration, letting go and learning to live without them is rough.  In this case, I'm just thankful I have one more book to write.  I'm not ready to say so long to these guys just yet.)

So, this morning, I was thinking about why it was that I had such a hard time seeing that not only were my editor and agent spot-on, but all these other people, with zip-investment in me or my book, could see what I couldn't . 

When I really think about it, I might not have been in the best frame of mind to see the forest for the bloody trees.  I think I was so overwhelmed with having to lose the people over whom I'd expended so much emotion . . . I just didn't want to let go of one more thing.  In this case, I didn't want to do away with SWEET as a title; I wasn't irrational about it or mean.  I was politely, like, uh, NO. But I was also simmering inside: like, what, WHAT?  You talking to me?  Are you talking to me?  I even moaned about this to my youngest daughter–like, <moan, moan, kvetch, complain> why can't they see how SWEET is so PERFECT?   My daughter was righteously indignant for me, and that made me feel better.  My husband was righteously indignant, too, but I suspect he just wanted to be fed. ( All of which points up another truism: never ask your family's opinion; they love you and people who love you will lie.   Or, if they're not lying, they're going to be very concerned about being supportive because they know on which side their bread's buttered.  You get what I'm saying.)

So, the long and the short of it: I got my head out of my butt.  I let go of me and took a step back and realized–yet again–that not only is my agent a great agent, she is invested enough to take herself out of the equation, too.  If she hadn't been, she'd have tried to steer things the way she wanted.  But she's a pro.  My editor's a pro.  Up to me to be a pro, too.

So, SWEET isn't SWEET anymore–and it's not a loss in any way, shape or form.  The title is now DROWNING INSTINCT.  Which, considering what the book's about, is perfect.

So, what this really points up?  Know what's you and what isn't.  Saves on the angst factor, believe me, and your loved ones will thank you.  So will your cats.

And for some fun: check out AMC's pick for Top Ten Worst Movie Titles.

 

 

Under the Hood at the Oasis

You ever have the experience of reading a book everyone's raved about and thinking: Wuh?  Am I missing something?  This happens to me all the time.  Sometimes I know it's because I just don't like the book, period.  Other times, it's that I wish I'd written the book.  Like, crap, wish I'd thought of that.  But, mostly, I'm genuinely mystified.  Sometimes I'll force myself to give the book another chance.  Most often, I pitch it and move on.  Really, life is too short and the nice thing about books (or anything else that depends on personal taste): there are a ton of choices out there.

There are other times, though, when perseverence pays dividends you don't expect. 

Way back in my misspent youth, I used to spend a lot of time thinking and writing about television and film.  Looking back, I think I primarily wanted to understand why I loved Star Trek so much (and, no, despite the information provided by this fabulously fun and funny site, my love had NOTHING to do with Shatner's toupee), but I studied all sorts of films and genres.  The fun part–for me, anyway–was taking that film or television show apart and figuring out how it worked: what shots did what; how did the music work; which parts of the plots really propelled the narrative; which unconscious fantasies or developmental levels the narrative was addressing . . . all that stuff.  I did it with books and stories, too, but not so much and now that I write fiction, I tend not to think about it at all because I don't want to mess up my head, if that makes sense.  There's the critrical eye you need to write and, especially, edit and know which words deserve to die; but there's the creative part of your head that you just got to let go and see where it takes you.  So I never get under the hood with my own books unless I'm addressing editor's comments or CEs.

A few weeks ago, though, I was challenged to do just that: get under the hood.  A very nice group, The Oasis Readers, invited me to Skype on in for a discussion of a bestselling novel.  Now, this was the first time I'd ever been asked to do anything like this, and I was INCREDIBLY nervous.  The person who organized this–a truly sweet woman named Laurie, who's just the nicest advocate a writer could ever ask for–circulated questions and tried to convince me that I would have a great time.  (She was right.)  But the problem was . . . I didn't like the book.  It was one of those bestsellers that was a true head-scratcher for me.  Like . . . wuh?  So I thought, oh boy, I'm sunk.

Then I remembered I used to study stuff like this all the time.  So what if I didn't like the book?  Okay, yeah, I saw what bugged me about it; so file that away under stuff I won't do with my own work.  But millions of people LOVED this book.  So I figured, okay, be a pro and tease apart what the narrative's doing.  Get under the hood and see what makes this baby run.  Try to understand how the book's structured so that the main protag ends up being someone you root for.

So I did that, and I think I figured out why people like the book.  Forget why it didn't work for me; I could see the appeal.  The nice thing was that I think my comments helped the folks in this group consider a few twists they might not have thought about if I hadn't been challenged to find something in this book to talk about.  I had a great time, too, and I hope they did as well.  (Here's hoping they ask me back sometime.)

The moral of the story?  Well, it's similar to something Dean Wesley Smith, a very fine writer and mentor, once challenged me to do: try something new that you've never done before with every book (or story, for that matter).  Here, it would be that there's always something new to learn from just about any book.  Sometimes that's how NOT to do something.  Often, though, you really can gain a new appreciation for someone else's work by understanding the skill and craft involved–because there's a reason bestsellers are bestsellers.  Effective marketing aside, it's the story that sells and a story told well enough to grab a lot of people by the throat is worth understanding.  

So, thanks to the Oasis Readers for reminding me that the best writers are students, too.  I owe you one.

If Cats Had Thumbs . . .

Oh, the horror, the horror . . .