Ilsa J. Bick's Blog, page 40

January 2011 Recommended Reads, Listens, and Looks

I know, I know: I'm late. In my own defense, I can only say that the holidays went by in a blur; the kids are home from college (love them but my routine completely goes to hell) and I was/am insanely busy to boot. After starting in on the latest book, I had to put that on the back burner and blister through the copy-edits for ASHES. Worked straight through my supposed vacation to Breckenridge, but since I don't ski anymore, I pretty much knew I'd be hammering. The one horrible thing is I slipped on ice about a week ago and my tail just hasn't been the same. I'm pretty much standing up to work and even swimming is tough. For someone who doesn't ski, this is a true bummer and completely unfair. On the other hand, since I do have to stand, this is yet one more argument to buy myself a present. I've had my eye on an HP Envy 14 Beats for quite some time . . .

On the reading/listening/looking front, I wasn't able to get through as many books as I'd hoped.  One I started and stuck with way past my usual pitch-point, primarily because I couldn't figure out if my lack of investment in what reviewers were raving about said more about me or the book.  I've decided: it was the book.  Really, life is too short.  On the other hand, I think we've got a good variety below. So, without further ado:

READS

Grant, Michael; Lies: A Gone Novel (Katherine Tegen Books; 2010).  Oh, those crazy kids of the FAYZ are at it again in this third book of the series.  I have to say that after reading this one, I thought of what Denise Crosby once said of her Star Trek: The Next Generation character, Tasha Yar (and I paraphrase): "Well, you know, it's Star Trek.  No one ever dies."

The same can be said here. Without giving anything anyway, let's just say that some characters you thought were dead aren't, while a few marginal characters do exit–some in the Big Poof (when they turn 15) and others by more violent means.  The basic plot here revolves around necessary lies that, as conditions continue to deteriorate, some kids tell in order to keep the FAYZ afloat.  In other words, welcome to the world of politics.  And, yes, some kids have resorted to cannibalism.  (You knew that was coming.)  There's also a bit of a hint as to what's really going on here. While that might be a red herring (I desperately hope so because it's a little lame), the hint does underscore little Pete's importance. Still, this book was not as good as I'd hoped, and one character in particular is so blatantly bizarre that having none of the principals catch on stretches credulity.  Perhaps the series is beginning to show a bit of wear.  On the other hand, this is still a pretty good, very fast read and necessary in order to keep up with the main character arcs.  If you're a GONE fan, don't skip it. If you've never read the series, start at the beginning.  Recommended for teens, 14 and up.

Henry, April; Girl, Stolen (Henry Holt & Co; 2010).  Griffin thought it would be simple: keys in the ignition, boost the car, no big deal.  Problem is, he never saw the girl in the backseat and not only is she pretty sick, Cheyenne Wilder's blind.  Soon what began as an accident turns deadly as Griffin's father holds Cheyenne for ransom.  This crisp, nimble thriller is all about escape: Cheyenne's from both her captors and the limits of her disability; Griffin's from his father; and the two teens from their preconceptions about one another.  While the plot is somewhat predictable, Cheyenne's and Griffin's evolving relationship provides for much-needed complexity.  Recommended for ages 13 and up.

King, Stephen; "A Good Marriage," Full Dark, No Stars (Scribner; 2010).  Of the four novellas in King's latest offering, this is–IMHO–the best and least discursive.  Modeled on Dennis Rader, the Kansas BTK killer, this novella is told from the wife's perspective and explores a simple premise: what would you do if the person you'd been married to for decades had a dark side you never suspected?  The wife's reactions are anything but simple, although the ending is somewhat of a let-down.  While none of these novellas are particularly horrifying–and two are fairly clunky–King still knows how to tell a good story.  This is the tightest and most original story of the bunch.  Recommended for mature teens, on up.

Pearson, Mary; The Adoration of Jenna Fox (Henry Holt & Co.; 2008).  After a near-fatal accident, Jenna Fox awakens from a coma, only to discover that her memories are gone.  Her only clues about who she is and what she was lie in a collection of discs–a lovingly compiled video-log of her life–and the cryptic comments of her distant, inexplicably hostile grandmother, Lily.  Set in the not-so-distant future, this is a somewhat dense, highly contemplative book.  The plot moves a bit slowly–so much so that astute readers will figure this out well before Jenna.  On the other hand, the major plot revelation occurs midway through, and what follows–as Jenna explores what it means to be human and the terrible price a parent might pay for the life of a child–more than keeps this novel afloat.  Recommended for teens, 14 and up.

LISTENS

King, Stephen; "A Good Marriage," Full Dark, No Stars (narrated by Jessica Hecht; Simon and Schuster Audio; 2010).  I frequently listen to books I've also read and I decided to give this one a try.  As with the actual read, I found this listen to be the best in tone and execution.  Hecht's performance is a little wispy at times, but she manages a convincing narration of an older woman facing up to betrayal and horror.  Recommended mature teens.

Stein, Garth; The Art of Racing in the Rain (narrated by Christopher Evan Welch; Harper Audio, 2008).  Okay, I'm the first person to admit that I dislike animal slice-of-life books because I suspect that they're written just to make me cry.  So how I got myself sucked into this one, I'll never know.  But I'm glad I did.  Enzo's belief–that he'll come back as a human–make this dog's memoir about his life and human family both funny and touching, and Welch is a fine narrator.  Made me want to run right out and buy a dog.  If only the cats wouldn't object . . . This is one of those adult books teens might also like.  Just make sure the tissue box is handy.

LOOKS

Jaws (Steven Spielberg; 1975) I caught this on TV the other night and was riveted–again.  As I think I've said before, I often watch movies for story: how to pace, what to think about if I'm trying to capture a certain tone.  I still remember seeing this movie when it first came out, and it was Spielberg's first full-length feature following his FABULOUS, 1971 made-for-TV movie, Duel (screenplay by Richard Matheson after his short story of the same name).  After all these years, Jaws still holds my attention; the film is fine horror–but also, and more importantly, the movie's a great thriller even if the trailer isn't Watch for author Peter Benchley in a cameo role.

Also, if you've never seen Duel, here's your chance (and don't be put off by the blank screen; just click and play:

True Grit (Ethan and Joel Cohen; 2010)  I don't often recommend first-run movies, but I'll make an exception this time around.  I'd never read Portis's book before seeing the movie, nor had I seen the original film with John Wayne (made in 1969, a year after the book appeared).  But I love many of the Cohen brothers' films; Blood Simple still works for me and No Country for Old Men is simply . . . wow.  I am not so wowed as to say that TG is their best film.  It's not, and the movie drags a bit; why they decided on a remake is a mystery, although–as I've since discovered–their version is much more faithful to the book.  Still, Hailee Steinfeld is a fine Mattie, and Matt Damon is terrific as a priggish Texas ranger.  Jeff Bridges was good, but the role wasn't that "deep" and I thought his performance was a little one-note.

Still, a fun movie, beautifully rendered and well worth the time.

I was intrigued enough by the movie to download the audiobook as well, and Donna Tart's narration is beautifully done.  That, alone, convinced me that this is one of classic American books–like To Kill a Mockingbird–that deserves a lot more attention than it's gotten.  Maybe the movie will change that.  If you're at all interested in the real history of Fort Smith, this article proves a fascinating read.

In closing, as Bill would say, it was a very good year all the way around–although I'll be honest: Frank sang it so much better. In the spirit of the New Year, I inflict on you what my editor sent to me:

And some people say editors are humorless . . .

Ski Vacations . . . or not

So I'm in Breckenridge. The family's skiing. I'm not, and not only because I value my knees. The last time I ever skied was some very steep run at Whistler. Complete white-out. I took a wrong turn and ended up on a mogul field that was WAY too advanced for me. Really, it was like this:

Clipped the side of a mogul–it was just so icy and I couldn't see a darned thing–and did this somersault. Landed flat on my back. About five seconds later, the family skis up and the hubby makes the pithy observation: "Wow, that looks like that hurt."

Uh. Yeah. REALLY yeah.

It's not that I'm a wuss. For the record, I didn't start skiing until I was in my thirties. My very first lesson was at Sugarloaf in Maine; the hubby and I were on a hiking trip, and the weather turned very cold and snowy. It also happened to be the beginning of hunting season, too. Even the local dogs wore orange. We did, too: yards and yards of the stuff. I sang a lot, too. I'm amazed no hunter shot me on general principle.

Anyway, I think the hubby was either tired of my singing or genuinely wanted to share something he enjoyed–or both–so he suggested that I try skiing. So I did it primarily to please him. As it turned out, I had a very nice instructor. Great snow, too. I was a complete klutz, though, and only kept at it because the hubby decided to take me in hand. He's really a very patient guy; I don't think anyone else would have put up with me. Once, I had this complete freak-out on Killington. Now I've hiked Killington; I remember that it was snowing when we got to the top, but the lodge up there was open and we thawed out with some nice soup and spectacular views. But hiking and skiing are, duh, different things. The hubby decided to take me on this VERY STEEP blue. Mind you, I think this was my third time on skis? Anyway, he got down; I froze on mid-slope. I finally made it down, but before I did, I had SUCH a tantrum: the throwing poles and skis kind, which is stupid when you're on a slope. (For the record, I'm much better now.) We all have our moments.

We went skiing every winter for about fifteen years. Took the kids; started them out young, so they're fearless. (On the other hand, one daughter was so anxious about it she used to chew her glove all the way down. Oh, and one kid fell off a lift. That was a heart-stopper. Note to self: tie child to seat.) I think the best ski day I ever had was over a decade ago: a Wednesday afternoon in Park City, to be exact. Hit those moguls, skied in control. Completely channeled Picabo Street–and speaking of her, who knew that she played the $10,000 Pyramid in 2003? Shatner should've had her for a partner.

My favorite place was Big Mountain, though. What a great resort. Nice people. Good snow. Lots of great terrain and some lovely bowls on the opposite side of the mountain. Riding up the lift and seeing all the snow ghosts was breathtaking. (Again, not my video but, yeah, it's really like this.)

I think it snowed there a couple times, so the powder was fabulous. As it was in Fernie, too: we went there when the resort had just opened, so it was very bare bones and not crowded at all. (This is not me, but the powder was EXACTLY like this and the skiing really was THAT good.)

So why give all this great stuff up? I know that falling and flipping and all that is part of the skiing learning curve. I get that. I think that if I were a tad younger, I might keep going. But I do have a very gimpy left knee–courtesy of a nasty patch of ice in Tahoe–and while I could wear a brace, I don't LOVE skiing enough to keep going. Mainly, I fear hurting myself just enough that I can't do all the other outdoorsy things I really, really enjoy.

So I hung up my skis. Now I send off the family–and I work. It's okay. The youngest feels guilty, but she shouldn't. I could snowshoe and I might–but the copy-edits for ASHES are in and I really want to get cracking on them. (My CE is FABULOUS. Whoever you are out there . . . thank you, thank you!) Right now, I'm a quarter through the manuscript. If I finish in time, maybe I'll snowshoe–or take a mine tour. Breckenridge used to be this old gold mining town and there are a couple defunct places open to tour. Might be fun; I love that kind of stuff.

New Year's will be right here, in Breckenridge. Already have the Champagne chilling and I figure finger foods, maybe a marathon game of Monopoly or Scrabble–whatever we can dig up.

Apropos of absolutely nothing, here's a friend's tree that makes me wish I celebrated Christmas. The tree's completely Trek-themed and while I have some of those ornaments (yes, I collected them for a time), I don't have them ALL.

For everyone out there: a safe and Happy New Year. Me, I'm keeping my fingers crossed that good things happen in 2011. Oh, and no one out there break a leg. I'm serious.

What a Turkey Knows

Yes, I know: You're laughing yourself sick. It's the title, right? I mean, really, just what does a turkey know? That's okay. I'd laugh at the title, too. So, go ahead, laugh; I'll wait.

Better? Okay, now that you're with me again . . . There's this very funny bit in Star Trek IV that I'll bet you all know: that whole Italian food thing? In terms of Trekkie humor, it doesn't get much better than this. But Kirk's first line perfectly summarizes my week. Take a look and listen:

Not catching me at my best: that about sums up my week. On top of the root canal, I got this horrible cold. I blame contact with actual human beings. Being a writer is an insular existence–for me, at least. I rarely see other people, although at this time of year, with concerts and rehearsals and Thanksgiving and relatives and their sweet little kids who also happen to be walking petri dishes when it comes to infection . . . I almost always get sick. When I'm VERY unlucky, this happens right before a concert, so I guess I should thank my lucky stars that I got sick the day AFTER.

Now everyone knows: a cold is three days coming, three days with you, three days going. Well, that's true for most people. Me, I've got asthma. So a cold usually means hacking out a lung at best. (Being a doctor means I'm the world's worst patient when it comes to med compliance. What? Me? Need meds? Don't be silly.) At worst–if I'm really unlucky–I get bronchitis and then I'm popping horse pills.

So it has been a worst case scenario week of the horse-pill variety, and kind of a pisser because the hubby went off to retrieve a daughter from college and, in little less than three hours, everyone will descend (for a month. A MONTH!). Frankly, I was looking forward to a couple days of savoring my freedom: no one around, no meals to make, no one to bother me in any way except the cats. Time to write and think and read. Maybe catch a movie on my own (I love that).

Instead, I've gone through several boxes of tissues and watched turkeys.

Really.

I mentioned a week or so back that wild turkey and ducks and all sorts of birds come through my neck of the woods. This year has been a little strange because the weather was so warm for so long. (You know you've been in Wisconsin too long when it's fifteen degrees and to you, that's balmy.) The first dump of the season last week also marked the return of the turkeys and ducks to my feeder. But while a small flock of ducks showed (only four this time around, but when the weather gets really rough, I can get upwards of twenty or so at a time), only one turkey did: a female. I just couldn't figure it and neither could my neighbor, who noticed the same thing. I know the turkeys were around; I saw them over in the next field. But they weren't coming to see me.

Then, on Tuesday afternoon, I think I figured out why.

This was post-root canal, when I was sipping tea and feeling sorry for myself. I noticed this one female out there but much closer to the house than ever before, on the back porch about five feet from the back door. (The cats were in heaven. At last, a different channel. They spend all their time watching the squirrel channel, the finch channel, the cardinal channel. When I had betas, newts and albino African frogs, the fish and amphibians channel. But now a turkey channel . . .)

I kept an eye on her all afternoon. She wasn't eating much and seemed interested, primarily, in following the sun and keeping warm. When I went out on Wednesday morning to scatter some corn, she really didn't move off as quickly as usual. In fact, she didn't move far at all. Maybe twenty feet away, which is unusual for turkeys. They're cowards. (Chickadees are not. They are, in a word, cheeky. Most will perch on the feeder and tell you what an idiot you are for waiting so long to feed them and would you mind getting a move on?)

Then I spotted this very big lump under the evergreens and that's when I knew why this turkey wasn't going anywhere.

I don't know if the tom was sick beforehand, maybe hit by a car on his way over to my place, or even poisoned somehow. All I know is that the tom was very big and very dead. Probably no more than a half day, or I'd have noticed. But I wonder now if he'd been hanging around, slowly dying, and the other turkeys who would normally happen by just didn't.

If you look it up, you'll see that birds mating for life is supposed to be an urban legend. The articles make distinctions between mating for life, which implies loyalty and all sorts of other emotions that we don't know if birds even have, and "long-term pair-bonds," which apparently is a polite way of saying, well, hell, these birds stick together and we don't know why, but they certainly can't be feeling what humans do.

Well, that's just pigeon-poop. There's this one mating pair of ducks I always recognized because she was a gimp, only had one foot and a stump. She and her guy showed up six, seven years straight, pretty much all year round, and he was very careful with her. Always let her eat first; chased away other males who came near. He was very protective. This was the first spring when I didn't see her, and so I figure something happened to her because I'd know that duck anywhere. Whether he came or not, I can't tell. But you get a feeling when you watch pair-bonds and mates; when you see how a male cardinal put seed directly into his mate's mouth . . . there's something going on there. (And there is nothing funnier than watching an entire flock of ducks land in your backyard in the middle of a snowstorm and stay, for hours, as close to the feeder as they can manage. And if I just happen to be out there, scattering feed when they want to land? It's a real hoot watching them start to land, figure out that, wuh-oh, it's a human. They all start quacking: Pull up, pull-up! Some fly off and do the circling routine again; others land on the roof and wait, like pigeons. It's pretty funny. Hey, you know, you find your chuckles where you can.)

Anyway, call it what you will, but that female turkey didn't want to leave her tom. When a bird isn't interested in eating and keeps looking at and sticking close to a dead mate; when a human like me shows up to bag a very large dead bird and the female doesn't run away but only moves off about ten feet and watches the whole time . . . I call that grief. I felt sad for her and told her how sorry I was. Call me weird, but you had to be there. I got the same feeling as I had a few years back when a female pheasant, who also came to our feeder on a regular basis, was killed (damn cars). I knew it was her as soon as I saw the body–but what really got to me was her mate, this beautiful male, standing over her, cocking its head from side to side, as if trying to figure out why she wasn't waking up. He was there a good day and a half; I finally worried he'd be hit (or worse, shot), so I went and took care of her, too, just to get him to move on. He hung around, maybe, six more hours after I was done, and then he left.

This turkey stayed a bit longer: another night and day, actually. She roosted in the tree above the spot where the tom died, and she was there the next morning. By mid-afternoon, though, two other turkey showed up to eat. Today, there have been three so far. Again, not as many as past years–the flock I've seen numbers about ten-thirteen–but certainly more. I don't know if she's there, but I suspect she is.

So this just goes to show . . . something, I guess. Life is fleeting. Relationships matter. Memory can be both a blessing and a curse. Something. Wittgenstein once wrote that if a lion could speak, we could not understand him. I get what Wittgenstein meant–that our frames of reference would be so alien to one another, we couldn't possibly relate–but in this case, I think I understand well enough.

Two more hours before the kids come home. I've made a nice pear-ginger cake. Now, I've just got enough time to put bread in the oven; tidy up a bit; pet a cat; and figure out what I'm going to feed everyone for dinner. Pasta, I think; that's fast and fun. Oh, and pop another horse-pill.

The birds? I've got them covered.

A Random Sampling: Christmas Treasures Concert, 2008

Found this on YouTube and figured, y'know, why not? Seven minutes of snippets, and not bad. And, if you really want to know, I'm the purple blob in the back row, soprano section (so, your left), next to those tall basses . . .

The last bit is very funny, too. The orchestra holds a fundraiser every year, and conducting this piece is one of the prizes.

Three Things I Vowed Would NEVER Happen To Me

1. Marriage

2. Children

3. Having a root canal

Until today, I had failed, miserably, at only the first two. But, then this morning, I pushed out into the subzero predawn (-2 degrees) and wandered over for my first–and pray G-d–only root canal. Here's me before the procedure.

The tech couldn't have been nicer. The endodontist was a very reassuring guy (even if he is ex-Navy . . . and boy, didn't they trounce Army). The procedure was . . . well, it was a root canal. Not something I'd recommend. Not excruciating or anything: apparently, dentistry has entered the 21st century. (They even do dental CTs. Who'd've thunk?)

Sitting there with my mouth cranked open as they roto-rootered that stupid tooth . . . I felt, like, I'd done something bad. I was being punished. But why? I brushed. I flossed. Only slovenly, floss-aversive, JuJube/Gummi Bear/Wine Gum addicts got cavities, never mind root canals. (For the record, I've had three cavities, all post-orthodontia some . . . well, I'm not going to tell you how many years ago that was. Trust me, we're talking years.)

The culprit? My dentist thinks it's because I grind my teeth at night. Anyone who knows me probably isn't surprised. A writer-friend told me I make coffee nervous. Yeah, but I wear a stupid guard . . . so I could definitely relate to Date Night.

Honestly, Hubby refuses to talk to me when I wear that thing. Frankly? I don't blame him.

Right now, my lower lip feels like it belongs on the face of the Michelin tire guy. I sound like I've sucked down a fifth. Tongue . . . what tongue? My tooth doesn't hurt–yet–but that's because they had to blast me with all this anesthetic because I am, OF COURSE, in that small percentage where the nerves are all tangled up the wrong way and take forever to numb and . . . well, it was ugly. I swear, it took longer to get numb than it did to do the procedure!

OTOH, the procedure was kind of interesting, and the doc was very cool about explaining every step. As a surgeon-wannabe, I have no trouble with this kind of stuff, even if it's happening to me (just make me numb, that's all I ask). One of my first medico-memories was laid when I was six years old and watched the ER doc throw stitches in my right elbow after I crashed through a sliding glass door. It was really interesting! Okay, shattering through glass wasn't so cool and there was a lot of blood, but the whole ER thing was so neat. I musta gotten hooked on trauma right about then.

So now, while I wait to feel semi-normal again, I think this offering from our 2008 Messiah concert is a reasonably accurate description of how I feel.

Hallelujah Chorus

Digging Out

So we had a pretty big dump, about a foot all told.  The storm started about two hours before our big holiday concert, and so we figured a bunch of people wouldn't show.  By the time the show began, we had about 700 people out of the 900 who'd bought tickets, so that's pretty respectable.  Everything went very well, too, and as soon as I get my CD of the concert, I'll post a track or two.

In the meantime, here's a piece we did a few years back.

Good Christian Men Rejoice

A busy day: shoveling out with the hubby;

plowing the North Forty;

taking a few minutes to enjoy the scenery;

and, of course, feed the turkeys who come through (although only a lone lady did, today);

A day like this, a girl really needs her snowshoes.

All in all, it was a day for soup and fresh baked oatmeal bread; for making a crockpot of my own special bison/lamb chili (go ahead and laugh; more for me) and trying that cranberry cake recipe.

The little guy was thrilled with the snow–only in theory, of course–and spent most of the day playing either with his toys or his new favorite: a wadded up piece of paper.

For the most part, it was a day when all was right with my little world, although the Packers lost .  Time to kick back, pop the top of a new Belgian ale,

and eat cake

Crimewave #11

If you don't know this outstanding British magazine, the current issue's a great place to start.

Published twice yearly, Crimewave is more book than magazine: a luscious collection with some really intense, cutting-edge stories, many of which end up in year's best collections.  Some of the hottest names in crime and mystery fiction–Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Joe Hill, Ian Ranken, Brian Hodge–have graced its pages as well as stories by up-and-comers.  So I'm thrilled that my mystery, "Where the Bodies Are," has found its way between the covers.

Hmmm . . . Do I detect a giveaway in the near-future?

Bravo Morricone!

Remember I told you'all about a piece the symphony chorus did with the orchestra a few weeks back, one based on Ennio Morricone's score for The Mission?  Well, here's the recording of the piece, BRAVO MORRICONE, arranged by Jonathan Schwabe.  Not too shabby.

And just for fun: THEME FROM PETER GUNN.

November 2010 Recommended Reads, Listens and Looks

This past month, I traveled a fair amount and so had the chance to read and listen to quite a bit more than usual. You'd think I'd have TONS of recommendations, but there were four books I just couldn't finish, despite great reviews, and one audiobook I actually stopped listening to before the end—really atypical for me since I've found that listens frequently improve a book I'm having trouble with.  So, sadly, there are no listens this month.

With no further ado, my recommendations from November are:

READS

Benoit, Charles; You (HarperTeen; 2010): Know how you sometimes talk to yourself? How you sit there and wonder what the hell you're doing? How it's sometimes easier to take a step back from yourself, as if you've suddenly become this really interesting bug no one's ever seen before? How, if you employed second-person narration as an internal thought, your high school English teacher would ding you? That's You. Known for his adult mysteries, this is fellow Dear-Teen-Me author Benoit's first YA novel, one that employs that second-person narration to tell the story of Kyle Chase, an angry hoodie and misfit. Soon as I saw that, I thought: Aha, gimmick. Well, maybe. Not really. This is a book about choice and its ramifications–essentially, an extended flashback told in the second person. The story itself is fairly straight-forward, although there's a fabulous twist at the end which is why, I think, Benoit made the narrative choice he did. While the narrative style is somewhat distancing and a tad pedantic . . . that's the point, dude.  Hoodie and all-around misfit Kyle Chase has made a bunch of very bad choices. Some are irreparable, and by the last page—when this short, nimble story has come full-circle—you understand that Kyle's taken that huge step back from himself so he can look down and wonder: Dude, what did you just do? Sure, this could've been told in first- or third-person, and I think the story would be just as powerful. But a good story is a good story, and Benoit tells his exceptionally well. If this isn't nominated for an Edgar, there is no justice in the world. Recommended for ages 13-up.

Dunkle, Clare B.; The House of Dead Maids (Henry Holt & Co.; 2010): If you ever wondered what happened before Wuthering Heights, Dunkle proposes to answer that in this prequel to Emily Brontë's masterpiece.  The Brontës' real-life servant, who supposedly told many a ghost story to her young charges, serves as the model for Tabby Akroyd,  an 11-year-old girl hired out to the mysterious, brooding manor, Seldom House.  There, she is nursemaid to a young and imperious charge–a savage little boy she calls "Himself"–and discovers an unsettling truth about Seldom House: the manor's haunted by the ghosts of dead maids, just like her.  While the book's not that scary–Breathe by Cliff McNish (Carolrhoda; 2006) is much creepier–the historical backdrop and climactic showdown provide their own satisfactions.  Recommended for intermediate readers, ages 11-15.

Ellis, Stephanie; No Safe Place (Groundwood Books; 2010): If you've followed headlines at all, you know that refugees from various parts of the world go through hell, and a bunch are kids. Ellis's short contemporary follows three orphans–one each from Iraq, Russia and Roma–thrust together purely by chance and circumstance.  The plot follows their flight and unlikely friendship. The writing is very spare and a little understated, which is somewhat problematic.  More mature, socially-aware teens will probably find this a tad simplistic, and there have been other, stronger adult books that look at the same issue (Tess Gerritsen's fabulous Vanish, one of the better installments in her long-running Rizzoli-Isles series, jumps to mind).  Still, most teens do not follow headlines, haven't a clue what kids without guardians or parents really go through, and are—face it—a little complacent. This story manages to present its facts baldly and without excessive moralizing and reminds readers: there are lots more kids in the world who would happily trade an iPhone for a full belly and a safe place to sleep. Just depends on your perspective. Got a teen looking for a social agenda? This is a good place to start. Recommended for ages 13-up.

Giles, Gail; Dark Song (Little, Brown: 2010): I love Gail Giles. Her dark, psychologically complex books are wonderful (Shattering Glass is one of my favs, and the audiobook is equally superb) and this book trends that way as well. Like Benoit's You, this is a story about choices—bad ones, as it turns out. The book follows Ames Ford: a kid with money and a storybook family who discovers that truth is malleable and things are not what they seem. (A hint: No, her dad's not a serial killer.) Once the truth comes out, Ames's world rapidly deteriorates, something reflected in her physical surround (as her family is forced to give up their post home for one that, well, a self-respecting cockroach might think twice about) and Ames's alliance with new boyfriend, Marc. While this book is not as nimble or well-plotted as Giles's previous efforts—the complete personality turnarounds/makeovers are a bit too radical to be believed and the end is both abrupt and just too tidy—I get what Giles is driving at: when reality sucks, desperate people allow themselves to believe all kinds of lies. Recommended for very mature teens, ages 16-up.

Junger, Sebastian; War (Twelve; 2010): I already wrote about this book in my 11/28 post, Love in War.  All I can add is: Go.  Read.  Then, maybe, read this again.

 

LOOKS

As is my wont, my movie pick is a look back.

The Mist (Dimension Films, et. al.; 2007); dir. by Frank Darabont.

Another confession: I'm probably the only person in America not blown away by AMC's new series, "The Walking Dead." I had hoped to be; Frank Darabont has done some of the more successful adaptations of Stephen King's works, The Shawshank Redemption and The Green Mile, among them.  So while TWD just doesn't float my boat, the series prompted me to revisit Darabont's most recent adaptation of a work by King, the 1986 novella, The Mist (first published in the collection, Skeleton Crew). The basic story follows what happens after a freakish mist engulfs a small, lakeside town.  Thomas Jane, in a pre-Hung role (a very fun television show, by the way; do check it out) stars as David Drayton, a man struggling to save both himself and his young son from  nightmarish monsters–not all of whom happen to live in the mist.  While the film is pretty faithful to the novella, the end is completely different–and, to my mind, much, much better: a real gut punch.   Frances Sternhagen, Laurie Holden, Andre Braugher, Toby Jones and Marcia Gay Harden (in a standout role as a splendidly religious manic) round out a fantastic cast.  Reason enough to watch this very fine film.

On Spock ears, teenage dreams and Bill (throwing that darned chair)

Bop on by Dear Teen Me, a great new site chockablock with YA authors who offer some words of solace, wisdom or just plain hindsight to their teen selves. I'm there today, dithering about Spock ears, unrequited love and how Bill could possibly lose The $20,000 Pyramid playing against himself.

Oh, and enjoy this little tidbit, too: the episode of Pyramid after the one where Bill blew it and threw a chair.  The sequence is about a minute-ten in. Oh, that Bill . . .

Enjoy! And apologies to both the Twitterverse and Facebook when this darned thing posts twice . . .

Ilsa