Sarah Cypher's Blog, page 6

Who is Nawal El Saadawi?

One of the great delights of my Arabic classes is encountering Arab writers and activists who are little known in the West. This delight is something akin to discovering cousins on the other side of the world–or, in the case of Nawal El Saadawi, an Egyptian doctor and lifelong activist for women’s medical rights, discovering a woman who could easily be my main character’s mentor (or my main character herself, plus about fifty years).

This morning I am reading her 1990 essay on women and Islamic fundamentalism, and I found a passage that really resonates with the sentiment behind the world I created for ROOM 100:

We know that our [women's] battle is economic and political, against both external and internal exploiters. But those exploiters try to transform political and economic wars into religious ones. . . . The fundamentalist movements are a mask for other battles, and a distortion of all religions.

(From here, p. 98).

A Confluence of Cultures along the Plains of the Dead: A review of Yangsze Choo’s THE GHOST BRIDE

The Ghost Bride by Yangsze Choo

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

In this lovely cross-genre debut, Yangsze Choo creates a haunting world of her own between paranormal YA, historical, and multicultural fiction. If I hadn’t discovered the book through a recommendation, I would have eventually found it on the Indie Next list, among the Goodreads Choice Award finalists, with B&N’s Discover Great New Writers picks . . . In short, it’s everywhere, and there couldn’t be a more deserving novel.

Teenager Li Lan is presented with an usual marriage proposal: to wed Lim Tian Ching, a dead man. It’s 19th-century Malaysia, on the rocky fault line between superstition and science, and Li Lan is much more interested in her suitor’s handsome (and alive) cousin, Tian Bai. Both young men are from a wealthy family to whom Li Lan’s father owes a debt, and when Lim Tian Ching’s ghost starts to invade Li Lan’s dreams, accusing Tian Bai of murdering him, her fate seems increasingly bound to his family’s. She tries fending the ghost off with spirit remedies, but overdoses and winds up with one foot in the world of the living and one in the Plains of the Dead. Driven to find her own deceased mother and understand the true circumstances of Lim Tian’s Ching’s death, Li Lan finds herself allied to a powerful creature of the underworld–and soon, deciding between loyalty to her family’s traditions and an uncharted future full of magic and adventure.

The writing really excels. Like all good magical realism, the Plains of the Dead and its otherworldly atmosphere are at once totally inventive and utterly tangible, from its corrupt bureaucracy, to its strange colors and textures, to the faceless paper servants that populate its cities. I found myself invested in the debts, obsessions, and agendas of the spirits that surround Li Lan, and really, this is why I read: to be so convinced that the impossible exists that I’m opening a book in the grocery store line, in bed at 1 a.m., or while riding my bike (on the trainer; safety first).

This was a fast, satisfying story, with an atmosphere that ends up being the most impressive aspect of an already formidable debut. I can’t wait to read what follows.

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Two Hours at 180bpm Is Not Panic: Race Report from the Surf City Half-Marathon

In the early-ish hours of last Friday, I discovered that I had lost my wallet. I was in the midst of towing two dogs and a cat out to the car, en route to Oakland International via the pet-sitter’s house. It was not on the dining room hutch, or my desk, or the dresser, or the floor behind the dresser, or in the puffy vest, or this pocket, or that pocket, or, or . . .

I left an obligatory freak-out voicemail for my wife, who was 2,500 miles away and couldn’t do anything about it; then put my big-girl chonies on, made some phone calls, got my checkbook and passport, and decided not to cancel vacation. When my wife called back, she asked, “Did you look, or did you Sarah-look?” I was at the gate, waiting to board. I set down my bag. I looked. Wallet. Right there, where I packed it yesterday. “Oh. Haha.”

That was Panic #1.

Deceptively peaceful view from the hotel.

Several hours later, my friends and I were lounging in a hot tub along Huntington Beach, still laughing about times we’d outsmarted ourselves, when the bubbles stopped and I sprang out of the water to turn them on again. There was a knob, and a big red button. I pressed the big red button. The entire pool area erupted in apocalyptic buzzing. EMERGENCY SHUT-OFF, I read, a little bit late.

That was Panic #2.

So, when I pressed the start button my Garmin the next morning and crossed the starting line of the Surf City 13.1, I was primed for something to go wrong. I’d be too cold, too caffeinated, too hungry, too sore . . . I’d twist an ankle, or accidentally snort the Gatorade (Vitalyte, whatever) while running and drinking. Actually, all of these things did happen. And I felt absolutely great.

Maybe it was the brand-spanking-new Oakland Triathlon Club gear, or the first effects of working with OTC’s Elite Team coach (Mitchell Reiss, thank you!). Maybe it was also the flat out-and-back course along a picturesque beach. Maybe every single song was the right one at the right time, but I kept a steady 8:30 pace, sped up to dodge knots of runners, and made myself push to a 7:14 pace for the last quarter-mile so that the girl with the orange shirt wouldn’t get too far away. Every time I looked down at my Garmin, my heart rate was at a panic-threshold 180 beats per minute, and somehow I didn’t mind at all. I finished in 1:51:50. There is room to improve over the season, but I was delighted with the time as a starting point.

Mentally, I often struggle. I get grumpy and call myself slow and make myself feel worse, for no good reason except that it’s a place to vent all the little frustrations that build up across weeks, and come out when my body really starts to hurt. But I’d already hit the panic button before the race–literally–and this time, just kept telling myself to manage discomfort with kindly common sense. I would finish, would not walk, and would get a boost every two miles as the Gatorade (Vitalyte, whatever) kicked in.

So, in this year’s coming races with the OTC Elite Team, the goal is to get the panic out of the way beforehand, stop thinking myself into a death spiral (or out of a wallet), and most of all, enjoy the company! In the pic is USCG Captain Select Charlene Downey, whose dozens of marathons and relentlessly positive attitude are an inspiration to me.

Link: An Abridged History of Rejection

For a slightly longer version of how I ended up with an agent, I wrote a short piece over on my editing blog. Three word summary: Persistence pays off.

It’s official: ROOM 100 has an agent

I couldn’t be happier to announce that Jenny Bent of The Bent Agency is representing my novel, ROOM 100. Jenny has seen a lot of my work since the 2009 Backspace Writers Conference in NYC, and one entirely different novel later, many revisions, an amazing freelance editor, and the timely support of so many friends and loved ones, my writing got better.

As I work on revisions, I’m reminded that the desire to get better–along with a love of storytelling–is something that hasn’t changed since that day in high school when I picked up a pen and green spiral notebook, and started to write.

Chocolate Won’t Help You Now: Race Report from the Hot Chocolate 15K

This year I’m racing for the Oakland Triathlon Club, so from time to time I’ll be posting these mini-reports from the Bay Area courses that our team swims, bikes, and runs. If you’re here because of my writing, never fear: I’ll try to make them entertaining. If you’re here because you’re an athlete who wants to learn about the course: I hope you find them helpful.

Helpful tip numero uno: If you want to run 9.32 miles without an FML moment, don’t ride 40 miles the day before, break your bike, and have to pedal up a bunch of hills in one, single difficult gear. Yes, you’ll earn a robust lunch of quiche and coffee cake; but yes, the next day’s race will be 6.2 miles of suck. Which brings me to . . .

F is for FML.

Numero dos: Running the first 3.1 miles at a sub-eight pace isn’t wise if you’re not a sub-eight runner. Somehow, two teammates and I ended up in the F group, which turned out to be the first corral–with the athletes who usually win races. As we stood around waiting for the horn, we joked that F was for fast. F for front. F for first!  The course began on a gentle downhill in Golden Gate Park, in comfortably cold conditions. I took off running and got through the first 3.1 miles in 23:36. Teammate Chris logged a 19:00. Somewhere around Mile 4, along the Great Highway out-and-back, Chris passed me in the opposite direction, wearing the same expression. Yes, F is for . . . FML.

In an out-and-back race, what goes down must come up. And by the time I was shuffling up the hills back into Golden Gate Park, getting passed by people who looked slow, the only things I wanted in the world were to be done and maybe another cup of coffee. I finished in 1:23:35, according to my Garmin, which was only about two minutes off the planned finish time; but somehow I’ve had much, much easier and happier runs at an 8:58 pace.

Instead of medals, we got cups of hot chocolate, chocolate fondue, a banana, cookies, and other piles of tasty sugary stuff. Next year, I’m going to ask for that fondue around Mile 4.

A Review of Louise Erdrich’s “The Plague of Doves”

The Plague of Doves by Louise Erdrich

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Not all novels are good at meandering. I suppose this has something to do with your expectations when you begin to read. But with The Plague of Doves, which pinwheels around a generation-ago murder on a Ojibwe reservation, its many points of view work as living artifacts to reconstruct not only generations of poverty and racism, but the entire settlement history of Pluto, North Dakota. I’ve wanted to read Erdrich for a long while, and I finally began with this one because it was a Pulitzer finalist; my only expectation was to take my time and enjoy the writing, and I was delighted to find it entertaining and sometimes outright funny despite its seriousness.

The story begins with a plague of doves two generations back, related to one of the most important characters, Evelina, an adolescent girl whose father owns one of the most valuable stamp collections in the world. Other characters include her storytelling grandfather Mooshum, the only survivor of a vigilante hanging who is in love with the once-kidnapped, thrice-married editor of the town’s historical newsletter; Evelina’s great-uncle Shamengwa, whose violin has an ethereal history; Judge Coutts, a descendent of the town’s first settlers. Erdrich makes the most of relics in this novel–the stamps, violin, a pair of old shoes, Coutt’s storied house–but it’s the characters themselves who are Pluto’s true artifacts. And as with the plague of doves, Mooshum’s stories are slightly embellished but hold a kernel of truth about Pluto.

Much of the book was written and published as standalone short stories in The New Yorker and elsewhere, which partially accounts for its many-jointed narrative. Yet it’s not a disjointed one: In such a large story space (i.e., four generations on and around a complicated family tree) the independent tales pace it and give it structure. The murder holds them together, sometimes from the distant background, allowing itself to be solved piece by piece by the reader and lone survivor only. Even so, the only real resolution we’re offered is the certainty of loss, and that all that’s precious will return to dust.

And I’m not sure you can write about Native American history without ending up there.

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Notes from a Jailbreak

A few days after my birthday, I ran, swam, and biked a lot. Here I am on the pier, struggling to get a wetsuit past my knees in preparation for a 1.2-mile swim from Alcatraz Island to Aquatic Park. Here are some lessons I learned.

1.  If you have to run first, don’t run for miles. It’s better to swim away from the prison first, so that when you are a half-mile between the rock and the shore, your calf doesn’t bunch up into something the size and elasticity of a baseball. It’s difficult to swim successfully from Alcatraz with a cramp. Instead, rest beforehand, drink warm fluids, and say a few prayers to the shark gods that their minions will be occupied in the saltier waters nearer the ocean.

2.  Pick a nice day–sun, no wind. Saturday, for instance, was lovely.

3.  You will be leaving the captivity of Alcatraz in the captivity of a 3mm, Yamamoto rubber suit. It’s like Spanx for your whole body. You won’t be able to move except to windmill your arms.

4.  Wave to the tourists before you jump into the water. They will make themselves known by arriving at the prison on a colorful boat, wearing layers of San Francisco gift-shop apparel, and carrying cameras. It’s unlikely that they will dismiss as ordinary twenty rubber-clad people leaping from a sound vessel into the bay, so when you do, step up on the rail, hold your goggles with one hand, and offer a cheerful wave or salute (whatever the rubber suit permits) to the row of camera lenses. Leap.

5.  The water will be cold enough to chill a bottle of champagne. Multitask your hyperventilating and begin windmilling toward the shore. All that thrashing will warm you up.

6.  Actually, don’t aim for the shore. Five million gallons of water are leaving the bay every second, creating a strong ocean-bound current. Aim for something very east of your target.

7.  Keep windmilling. By now, your goggles have fogged up. Maybe you’ve even lost a contact lens. If you have a buddy, now is the time to keep her in sight, because whatever very-east target you were aiming for is just a horizon enveloped in a salty blur of light.

8.  If so blinded, do not think deeply about danger cues; for instance, exhaust fumes or buzzing engines. Sounds underwater are farther than they seem, and you are not being hunted by a roving pod of Ninja blenders, or otherwise. Imagination is not your friend.

9.  If you are aiming for Aquatic Park, you should pass the breakwater around the thirty-five-minute mark. The water will get warmer and flatter, and the beach will appear. You will experience a rush of relief, and suddenly remember how to swim well. Show some gratitude, and don’t pass your swim buddy.

10.  Stand up in two feet of water. Wipe the gunk off your face. Hug your swim buddy. You just escaped from Alcatraz.

Thank you to Eric Gilsenan for running the Escape Academy, the Oakland Triathlon Club for the chance to participate in it, and especially Erin, the loyalest swim buddy, best friend, and love of my life. There is no other way I’d rather spend a birthday. 

Spellbound: A Review of Helene Wecker’s “The Golem and the Jinni”

The Golem and the Jinni by Helene Wecker

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

As a debut novel, The Golem and the Jinni is an intriguing magical realist-historical crossover novel about New York immigrants at the turn of the twentieth century. The concept is easy to love: A bound Jinni, Ahmad, is freed from his copper flask in a Syrian tinsmith’s shop in Lower Manhattan, while in a Jewish neighborhood nearby, a golem, Chava, finds herself masterless and alone. The two meet and form a troubled companionship, unaware that the only person on Earth who knows both their natures has trailed them to New York and intends to use their power for his own gain.

Despite the simplicity of the central story–two immigrants meet in a new place and try to make a go of it–the novel is rich with historical detail and uses many points of view to encompass a layered storyline and large cast of characters. The story is sometimes unwieldy, and the many POVs bog down the climax and denouement, but it’s hard to imagine how else the story could handle the sheer volume of world-building it has to do: Besides reconstructing turn-of-the-century Manhattan, it builds the world of the jinn, as well as the Kabbalistic magic that creates and controls the golem. The novel comes out to be a tome, but most of it is delightfully inventive, dynamically plotted, and engrossing.

Part of me hoped for a deeper dive into the novel’s potentially beautiful thematic territory–anything from the depth of the respective Jewish and Arabic cultures to the deep sense of displacement, beyond simple homesickness, that comes from emigration. These are present in the novel, but don’t resonate as much as they might have. The Golem and the Jinni is a relatively straightforward story that covers a lot of ground, showing us a slice of Arab and Jewish history before the intense politicization of 1948 and beyond, when both communities were still fleeing Old World masters to face the same hardships and hopes in the New World.

I’d give it four stars except for the few places where the plot felt labored; mostly, though, I really enjoyed reading it and look forward to more from Helene Wecker. For another inventive (but considerably more baroque) novel about turn-of-the-century New York, check out Mark Halprin’s Winter’s Tale.

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Voyaging Backwards: A Review of Neil Gaiman’s “The Ocean at the End of the Lane”

The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

In spirit, Gaiman’s new novel is an elegy for the forgotten swaths of childhood, but it reads like an unexpurgated fairytale. The first-person narrator returns almost by accident to a farm in the English countryside, a place he believes he hasn’t visited since childhood, and the sight of its pond releases a memory of a grotesque but magical childhood adventure involving a creature from another universe that wants to give the adults on the lane what they want: money or sex. The entire novel is a flashback, but the adult narrator adds depth to what the seven-year-old protagonist doesn’t understand about the grownups’ world.

What I love about Neil Gaiman is that he is unafraid of following his imagination, and in a story like this, it makes the young protagonist’s experience ring with authenticity. Kids aren’t afraid to throw their whole selves into a made-up world, and neither is Gaiman. The protagonist befriends an eleven-year-old (but possibly immortal) girl whose magical powers are peculiar and almost limitless; and as the friends gather what they need to fight the creature, Gaiman evokes that particularly young feeling of following the known world to its boundary and crossing into the unknown–full of wonder and terror.

As I read, I often found myself wondering why the book was written for adults and why it wouldn’t be suitable for much younger readers. But the young protagonist’s encounters with the creature are probably too disturbing for middle grade. Disguised as a beautiful nanny, the creature forces the protagonist to remain at home, away from the help of his friend. Gaiman does such a spot-on job of capturing the feeling of no escape that it’s hard not to read a deeper meaning into it, something about the layers of manipulation, violation, and hurt that children suffer at the hands of adults.

The Ocean at the End of the Lane is a very fast read, and while it’s engrossing in the way that the Narnia Chronicles and Pullman’s His Dark Materials series is, there is a dark under-layer that resonates with some more mature truths about what it means to be a child.

The only reason I gave it three stars instead of four is that I’m comparing it against his complex masterpiece, American Gods.

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