Helen Rena's Blog: Books and Their Discontents, page 12
July 16, 2014
I Was Interviewed by Ana Blaze
Ana: How do you choose your character names? Do you ever change their names mid-process?
Helen: OMG…character names…I tend to agonize over them because they are obviously so important. In Into the Blind, my debut novel that's just come out, I favored telling names. You know like when you call your evil character Mr. Slime-Pants. Since Into the Blind is about a fifteen-year-old girl who must choose between her boyfriend and being all-powerful, I decided to give her a dual hyphenated name. The first part of the name was intended to be just a generic girl's name and the second, the name of a powerful queen. However, the queen I chose at first was just too obscure. The reference fell flat. So I had to scramble and find another queen. And that's how my protagonist became Ever-Jezebel.
Ana: Have you ever read a book that you expected to enjoy but didn't or, vice versa, read a book that you didn't expect to enjoy and fell in love with it anyway? Which book?
Helen: Last summer I decided to finally read Dostoevsky's The Idiot. I didn't expect to enjoy it. In fact, I didn't even expect to finish it because Dostoevsky is heavy going. Some of his books, especially the ones told by insane narrators, like for instance The Double, are too much for me. I'd like to stay sane, thank you very much. But I wanted to try reading The Idiot—it's one of my mom's favorite books—and surprisingly, I liked it. It was brilliant, and okay, in places it was a bit over the top, especially when the characters started going off the crazy end, but overall, it was an amazing book.
Ana: What is your favorite game?
Helen: I love Scrabble, but I can never beat my husband. Somehow he always finds longer words or words that would go over the tallest stacks of letters so he always ends up with the most points. Oh, and also I think he cheats sometimes. Once he swore that a word "zog" exists and that it's a physics term. Since we didn't have a dictionary handy at that time and I'm a humanities person, I had to believe him. Zog my elbow, right?
Ana: What was your favorite subject at school?
Helen: It was…okay, I don't remember what it was called or what it was about. Maybe it was First Aid because it was taught by our school nurse. Now, why I loved it was because we had it in our teachers' lounge (they must not have had an available room during that period or something) and there was a huge head of Lenin in that lounge. Yes, it was a Soviet school, and yes, it was Vladimir Lenin, the leader of the October Revolution of 1917. So the teachers had his head in their lounge. Not even a bust. Just a head. And it was huge, the size of a couch standing on its end. And it was bald of course, because as historical justice would have it, Lenin got canonized as a baldie. So, back to the (maybe) First Aid class. The nurse, who naturally was not hired to teach us, but to take care of our scrapes, got constantly called out of the teachers' lounge, and we were left to our own devices sometimes for the duration of the entire class period. Yes, that was life. My friends and I chatted and gossiped, and what made it even better was that I did it while leaning against Lenin's head and patting him on his bald top. Hamlet with his poor Yorick's skull has nothing on me.
Ana: Please share a favorite line from your newest book.
Helen: Only one? But I like all of them. Okay, okay, I'll behave. I'll quote a bit from the first chapter of Into the Blind. It's when Ever-Jezebel gets caught kissing someone other than her boyfriend Fox:
And so I put my hands on Sinna’s shoulders, preparing to push him away, when I realized that his mouth tasted of strawberries, and his lips were fuller than Fox’s, and softer, and not as hot. And come to think of it, I’d never kissed anyone but Fox in my life. I began mapping Sinna’s mouth with my tongue. And then there were steps—and a voice—Fox’s voice: "Ever, what the hell are you doing?"http://anablaze.blogspot.com/2014/07/an-interview-with-helen-rena-author-of.html?showComment=1405540442300#c4159373721637096970
June 6, 2014
Girls Are Good For Drowning (Flash Fiction)
Ophelia swam to shore. It was a muddy bank with an occasional sharp stone embedded in it. Ophelia grabbed a branch and helped herself onto the dry ground. It was cold. Probably autumn. Ophelia wasn’t sure—she’d been swimming with her eyes closed ever since Shakespeare had shoved her into the river. But maybe it was time to get out.
She walked along a street, her long dress leaving a wet trail. A hot drink would be nice, she thought just as her eyes fell on a shop front with a picture of a steaming mug. She hurried in. Besides hot drinks, the place was selling books, and Ophelia, forgetting her cold, drifted over to the shelves. Books…bright-colored, shiny, glossy, gilded, perfect. Lovingly, Ophelia ran her pallid finger over the spines.
“Oof,” a tall girl in a leather coat said when Ophelia rammed into her. “Look where you’re going, ‘kay?”
“Sorry,” Ophelia said. “What are you doing?”
The girl was holding a book with a photo of a young drowning woman on its cover in one hand and a sticker of a wet kitten in another. “Watch,” she told Ophelia and put the kitten over the woman. “See, it’s not okay to drown kittens,” she said. “PETA will throw a fit when they find it. Then maybe they’ll have this book yanked off the shelves.”
Ophelia looked around. There were three more books with drowning girls on their covers, and then there was a book with a live girl on it and a title, “Drown Me.” Quietly, Ophelia turned and left the store and walked back to the river. She was a good swimmer. She had to be.
She walked along a street, her long dress leaving a wet trail. A hot drink would be nice, she thought just as her eyes fell on a shop front with a picture of a steaming mug. She hurried in. Besides hot drinks, the place was selling books, and Ophelia, forgetting her cold, drifted over to the shelves. Books…bright-colored, shiny, glossy, gilded, perfect. Lovingly, Ophelia ran her pallid finger over the spines.
“Oof,” a tall girl in a leather coat said when Ophelia rammed into her. “Look where you’re going, ‘kay?”
“Sorry,” Ophelia said. “What are you doing?”
The girl was holding a book with a photo of a young drowning woman on its cover in one hand and a sticker of a wet kitten in another. “Watch,” she told Ophelia and put the kitten over the woman. “See, it’s not okay to drown kittens,” she said. “PETA will throw a fit when they find it. Then maybe they’ll have this book yanked off the shelves.”
Ophelia looked around. There were three more books with drowning girls on their covers, and then there was a book with a live girl on it and a title, “Drown Me.” Quietly, Ophelia turned and left the store and walked back to the river. She was a good swimmer. She had to be.
May 30, 2014
Lolita
I don’t understand why people like this book. A middle-aged guy molests a boy for several years. The boy runs away from the pervert and gets married. Just as the boy is about to become a father, he is killed off by the author. The pervert is never punished.
May 26, 2014
Dog Number F (Flash Fiction)
Vera was two days late. After she parked her car in the driveway, she threw the door open and scrambled out to face a small dingy house half-sunk into a balding lawn. A gnarly tree in front of the porch was thickly hung with tiny birdhouses, all of them empty and mossy and time-weathered. A vacant dog kennel leaned against the tree.
Praying to all the gods that nothing bad had happened here, Vera ran onto the porch, briefly noticing a large planter with a desiccated geranium in it. Several large bones were piled next to the planter.
Vera knocked on the door. No answer. She knocked again. “Aunt Lisa! It’s me, Vera.”
The door creaked open, revealing a small brown dog standing just inside the hallway. No Aunt Lisa anywhere.
Vera made another attempt: “Aunt Lisa-a-a-a!” Silence. Just the dog in the hallway. Vera looked at it more closely. It was as tall as a milk carton and sort of longish…sort of like a dachshund, but not a dachshund because this was the only breed Lisa could tell apart, and this dog was not it.
The dog looked at Vera too. It was neither friendly nor hostile. It seemed profoundly content with standing in the hallway and facing Vera.
Vera cautiously carried her foot over the threshold. The dog did nothing—neither moved nor growled. Just watched.
Once Vera was inside, the dog pushed the door closed with its nose. Then it walked over to a credenza by the wall. Vera followed. There was a note there, atop of some keys, crumpled receipts, and a piece of opened, but unchewed gum: “Sweet pea, I’m so glad you made it. Dog Number F will take care of you. Love, Aunt L.” There was a thin layer of dust on the note.
Vera swallowed. This was not good. Vera and her three sisters had been taking turns watching their kooky aunt, and the last turn had been Mabel’s, and Mabel had said everything went just fine. She and Lisa played games; for fun, instead of talking to each other, they exchanged the most droll notes; and every day, Lisa spoke to Vera’s mother on the phone in that quavering, breathy voice of hers, you know. Well, that was then, and now it was all screwed up. Because it was Vera’s turn, and Vera had been screwing up everything.
Just to be sure, Vera checked all the rooms, and yes, they were completely devoid of her aunt. Vera returned to the hallway and looked at the dog again. The bones outside seemed too big to have been Dog Number F’s meal. Did they belong to Dog Number E?
The phone, an ivory-colored, vintage-looking affair with an actual rotary dial, rang like it was paid to make as much noise as possible. Vera picked the receiver. “Hello.”
“Lisa?” said the receiver in Vera’s mother’s voice. “Lisa?”
Vera had to place her hand on the credenza not to fall down. If Mother learned about Lisa’s disappearance, she might not survive the shock. The doctors had said so. Vera closed her eyes. Well…maybe…maybe…Lisa would show up. Yes, that was it—an eighty-year-old woman couldn’t be gone for long—and in the mean time Vera would just pretend to be Lisa…for just a bit. It wouldn’t really harm anyone, would it?
“Lisa?” the receiver pleaded.
Vera put her sleeve over the speaker and said in a quavering, breathy voice of her aunt, “Speaking.”
Dog Number F smiled.
Praying to all the gods that nothing bad had happened here, Vera ran onto the porch, briefly noticing a large planter with a desiccated geranium in it. Several large bones were piled next to the planter.
Vera knocked on the door. No answer. She knocked again. “Aunt Lisa! It’s me, Vera.”
The door creaked open, revealing a small brown dog standing just inside the hallway. No Aunt Lisa anywhere.
Vera made another attempt: “Aunt Lisa-a-a-a!” Silence. Just the dog in the hallway. Vera looked at it more closely. It was as tall as a milk carton and sort of longish…sort of like a dachshund, but not a dachshund because this was the only breed Lisa could tell apart, and this dog was not it.
The dog looked at Vera too. It was neither friendly nor hostile. It seemed profoundly content with standing in the hallway and facing Vera.
Vera cautiously carried her foot over the threshold. The dog did nothing—neither moved nor growled. Just watched.
Once Vera was inside, the dog pushed the door closed with its nose. Then it walked over to a credenza by the wall. Vera followed. There was a note there, atop of some keys, crumpled receipts, and a piece of opened, but unchewed gum: “Sweet pea, I’m so glad you made it. Dog Number F will take care of you. Love, Aunt L.” There was a thin layer of dust on the note.
Vera swallowed. This was not good. Vera and her three sisters had been taking turns watching their kooky aunt, and the last turn had been Mabel’s, and Mabel had said everything went just fine. She and Lisa played games; for fun, instead of talking to each other, they exchanged the most droll notes; and every day, Lisa spoke to Vera’s mother on the phone in that quavering, breathy voice of hers, you know. Well, that was then, and now it was all screwed up. Because it was Vera’s turn, and Vera had been screwing up everything.
Just to be sure, Vera checked all the rooms, and yes, they were completely devoid of her aunt. Vera returned to the hallway and looked at the dog again. The bones outside seemed too big to have been Dog Number F’s meal. Did they belong to Dog Number E?
The phone, an ivory-colored, vintage-looking affair with an actual rotary dial, rang like it was paid to make as much noise as possible. Vera picked the receiver. “Hello.”
“Lisa?” said the receiver in Vera’s mother’s voice. “Lisa?”
Vera had to place her hand on the credenza not to fall down. If Mother learned about Lisa’s disappearance, she might not survive the shock. The doctors had said so. Vera closed her eyes. Well…maybe…maybe…Lisa would show up. Yes, that was it—an eighty-year-old woman couldn’t be gone for long—and in the mean time Vera would just pretend to be Lisa…for just a bit. It wouldn’t really harm anyone, would it?
“Lisa?” the receiver pleaded.
Vera put her sleeve over the speaker and said in a quavering, breathy voice of her aunt, “Speaking.”
Dog Number F smiled.
Byron's "Darkness"
A very short synopsis: Planet Earth is in trouble. The sun goes out. Plants are dying. There’s nothing to eat. People burn everything they could for light and warmth. And then, after everyone is dead, two last women approach the last fire and look at each other…and die from laughing after they see how badly they applied make-up.
Tolstoy's War and Peace
A very short synopsis of War and Peace:
It is 1812, and Russia is overrun by evil women who like to dance, daydream, and sleep around. Russian men are completely unmanned. To stop this, Napoleon invades Russia. Instantly, Russian men get back their manliness and kick Napoleon out. They also kill some uppity women* and impregnate others, who instantly become docile and bovine.**
The end.
*Okay, technically, it's Tolstoy who kills these women—they overdose on abortion medication.
**Probably because they saw what happened to the other women.
It is 1812, and Russia is overrun by evil women who like to dance, daydream, and sleep around. Russian men are completely unmanned. To stop this, Napoleon invades Russia. Instantly, Russian men get back their manliness and kick Napoleon out. They also kill some uppity women* and impregnate others, who instantly become docile and bovine.**
The end.
*Okay, technically, it's Tolstoy who kills these women—they overdose on abortion medication.
**Probably because they saw what happened to the other women.
