Bibliography XIV

“The Starless Sea” – Erin Morgenstern

Beautiful imagery, enchanting vignettes, compelling story, too many twists and turns. I got lost three-quarters in and felt vaguely cheated at the end. Maybe I missed something. Maybe I expected too much—and yet the writing itself did not disappoint.

I confess, I was in a scattered state of mind when I read the book. In that respect, I disappointed myself. Still, the main storyline intercut with seemingly unrelated stories would have confused me anyway. Just as I fell into the rhythm of the protagonist’s tale, the momentum was interrupted with a story from another realm. Sensing that these unrelated fairy tales were relevant to the main theme, I trusted all would be revealed as I read deeper into the book. But in the end, I missed the point.

Don’t get me wrong. The writing is beautiful, as magical as in “The Night Circus”, but depending on the passage, there is either too much unnecessary information or not enough where necessary. I admire the author’s ability to put me in a scene where I can hear the merest whisper and smell the faintest trace of cinnamon, so I appreciated the experience of being there. I just don’t know why I was there in the first place.

Yes, I do. This is Erin Morgenstern’s second novel, and I loved her first so much that I’ve read it every Christmas since 2012. Eight years later, I still look forward to the annual delight. Expectations were high on this one; perhaps she felt the pressure and overcompensated. There is a lot of writing in this book. I think it could have been shorter and thus made more sense ... but perhaps, as I say, my expectations were too high. I just don’t know.

I will read a good book more than once. Sometimes it’s simply because I enjoyed it so much the first time. More often, it’s to get a better grip on the story itself. As with a movie, the first round is spent getting familiar with the characters, following the action and trying to predict the outcome rather than noticing nuances. Knowing how “The Starless Sea” ends (sort of), it may make more sense to me the second time.

Am I trying to avoid disliking a book I was so eager to read?

Maybe. I was so confused at the end that I couldn’t tell whether or not I liked it at all.

At least I’m willing to give it another try.

Reading Material

I’m one-third of the way through my annual visit to The Night Circus and it’s as magical as ever despite its familiarity. There are no throwaway scenes, no skip-over passages; in fact, there are scenes where I wriggle with delight at what I know is to come. Everything is so beautifully executed. It’s a joy to read.

The best book this year was ML Rio’s debut novel If We Were Villains, and unexpected feast that I was compelled to pick up and subsequently read twice in a row. I finished the last page, then flipped immediately to the first and started over again—in the same sitting! A book that good is always a treasure, probably because they’re so rare. Villains was favourably likened to Donna Tartt’s The Secret History, so I proceeded to read that as well.

It wasn’t the same at all. None of the characters was remotely likable, and the tragic secret that bound them was something I’d have done just because the guy was so insufferably irritating. Nor did I find the professor who supposedly seduced his idiot students into committing the original, accidental, crime particularly charismatic. The whole story left me utterly cold.

But the most disappointing read of 2017 had to be Juliet’s Nurse. The premise was certainly intriguing, especially to a Shakespeare fan who has three different versions of Romeo and Juliet on DVD (and Tybalt steals the show in every one), but the execution fell far short of the expectation. It’s hardly the author’s fault that I’d hoped for a new twist on the tragedy and she gave me more of the nurse’s background than I anticipated. The kids weren’t even born at the beginning of this story. Once I realized that we weren’t starting with the Montague/Capulet conflict in full swing, it was quite engaging, and it was a bonus to meet Tybalt as a child, even if it was never entirely clear why he grew up with such a hate-on for the Montagues. The so-called blood feud was barely explained let alone investigated, but what really bugged me was the portrayal of Juliet as a sweet young thing and Romeo as an awkward stripling suddenly turned conniving traitor to the precious girl’s tender (ha!) heart.

I’m sorry but, hello? Has the author even read the play? Seen the movie? Romeo as a double-crossing womanizer? Seriously? I have never seen him as anything other than a poet with heroic intentions too easily foiled by fate and his own romantic nature. Juliet, on the other hand, is a pampered, impetuous firebrand whose willful passion drives the whole story.

So, toward the end of the novel, I was reading to get it over with, caring nothing for any of the players and bitter that the news of Tybalt’s death was given tabloid drama status and the reason for it never fully defined—except, of course, for that amoral scoundrel being solely responsible. Honestly, when I wasn’t impatient with the nurse’s histrionics, I was snickering at the play by play. I was saved by my library card on this one—I borrowed rather than bought the book, which had been haunting me for some while. In the end, the story I told myself about the story was far better than the story I was told!

It’s good to be reading again, though. Of late, I haven’t been as immersed in words as much as behooves my creativity; I can’t write if I don’t read, as it seems I need the work of other writers to inspire me. I have learned how to write (and how not to write!) through their efforts, for all of which I am grateful whether or not I actually enjoyed the experience. I think now, with few weeks of vacation ahead and my mind turning from mere survival to more pleasurable pursuits, it might be time to renew my passion for my craft and see where it takes me.

I Wish I Wrote That!

books that deserve to be read

The Night Circus

Station Eleven

If We Were Villains

Each of these novels had me rending my garment on first read, they were so astoundingly, beautifully written. I’ve read the first four times in four years (with the fifth scheduled for this Christmas). I’ve read the second twice, with the third time pending. I’ve just finished racing through the third, and fully intend to read it again, slowly, to savour the details missed in my zeal to see what happens next. Magical tales in their own right, the language and style of the authors (all women—coincidence?) is pure art. Villains was partly written by Shakespeare, as it features hefty chunks culled from his plays, but he also inspired the “pidgin Bard” bandied so easily between the characters. Geez, it was an astonishingly gorgeous read; I fell so deeply into the story that it became real at the expense of my reality—and it urged me to improve my own craft.

I love English. I treasure grammar as much as I do the imagery conjured by the words. Prose can be poetry, after all, and after relishing novels like these three (among others), I long to be a poet myself.

I have had no problem with purple hyperbole in the past, but the glory in these novels lies in the simple beauty of language. A few well-chosen words can ignite brighter joy and sharper horror than a rampant stream of syllables. This trio of young women has created a wonderland in words, and though I may be similarly gifted, I am always in awe when a story excites my imagination and no scene is filler.

I love to write. I love to read. I can’t do one without doing the other (I must read more!), and why would I want to, when inspiration and aspiration are stimulated as one?

While I’m raving, I must include Z in the list of books I wish I’d written. It’s a completely different story in a completely different style, yet executed with the same respect for the written word and the talent to portray raw emotion as airbrushed fancy. Strong characters will always drive a story, of course, but set design and stage direction are important, too. Keeping it simple is the hard part. I struggle with it every time I put pen to paper. Books like those at the top of this post do more than entertain me. They teach me, absorb me, frustrate me, excite me, and inspire me.

They also exhaust me—and that’s the most fun of all!

The Next Two Weeks

This is my life for the next two weeks. With breaks for the new Star Wars film and hosting a visit with my wee and boy sisters on New Year’s Eve, the bulk of my remaining fortnight’s vacation will be spent writing. Yup, a typewriter and a coffee cup (actually a computer and a tea tumbler) are my constant companions as I devote myself to reconnecting with the Muse.

My primary project is the story of Caius and Aurelia. I won’t get it finished—there’s too much to tell—but now that I feel more like myself again, I’m eager to resume the writing of it. While I was doing the dishes the other night, the opening lines of Aurelia’s POV drifted in on the winter wind, soon followed by a third character stepping up to tell his version of the tale. I was so excited I forgot about the dishes and stood with my hands in the hot water, watching the pictures in my mind’s eye. With that much meat on the bone, I’ll be feasting well into 2017!

Reconnecting means more than with the Muse, however. I lost some serious touch with my daily practice after accidentally igniting an auto-immune reaction to a homeopathic flu preparation in November. A natural alternative to an annual flu shot, which I have never had, I decided to get back with the program after some years of going without—and I wish I had gone without it this year, too. Within 48 hours of the first dose, joints were flaring all over the place; and while there is no definitive proof that the medicine was the culprit, the timing is too suspicious to discount it. Over the five week course, my arthritis progressively worsened, started to recover, then worsened again. Three health practitioners had three different theories. None of the treatments made it better. One or two made it worse. I decided to finish the flu program rather than quit halfway through—it may or may not have been a good idea, but four weeks after my final dose and my body appears to be recalibrating. Oh, my joints still hurt like tiny star flares, but the frequency, location and intensity are diminishing and, as I say, I am beginning to look outward with more interest in things than I was through the past couple of months.

During those interminable weeks, it was all I could do to get out of bed, get to work and hang on until fatigue sent me to a premature bedtime. Christmas only happened with the help of tea fairy Treena and my angels—thanks to them, I was able to pull off the coup of Christmas prezzies for my beloved Ter, who was my stalwart rock the whole time—but anything else requiring energy or focus fell by the wayside. Weekly yoga sessions, daily meditations, attention to detail at the office (I’m sure my mistakes will show up later in January), and writing anything other than my name were sacrificed in the name of survival.

Though I did finish my annual reading of The Night Circus. And the Christmas cards got done. Priorities, you know.

So, my fiendish plan for the rest of my vacation also includes reconnecting with Ru. Gradually, gently, I mean to reinstate my twice weekly yoga sessions and practice more frequent meditations. Ter has wryly warned against “over meditating”—she has as many gurus as I have doctors, and in helping to make her point with me, she realized that she has a similar proclivity to spiritual maintenance as I have to physical. And it’s true: too much of a good thing can be as harmful as too much of a bad one. The pendulum on maintenance (physical for me, spiritual for her) swung a bit too far and messed us up in 2016. Between us, we intend on simplifying our practices as we move into the new year, aiming for balance in all things.

With love,

King of Kings

It’s been years since I read a novel by Stephen King. His On Writing is a staple on my bookshelf, but despite his name perennially displayed in the New Releases section at the local bookstore, the last novel I read was Gerald’s Game in 1993, and even then, I did not finish it. Too scary.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I still believe The Stand is his best work. Cal Leandros even gives it an honourable mention in Roadkill!

The man doesn’t need a book release to get my attention, however. I have long admired him for his honesty and, in particular, his sense of humour. The guy’s a hoot.

Little did I know that he and George R.R. Martin have been friends for decades, since before GRRM struck gold with A Game of Thrones (the book, not the TV series). So imagine my delight on finding a video of the two old pals having an onstage conversation when Steve’s recent book tour brought him to New Mexico. The bulk of the talk was stuff I already knew, but I always appreciate hearing how the professionals operate. One of King’s genre policies is this: “Aim for terror. If you can’t reach terror, aim for horror. If horror eludes you, settle for the gross-out.”

The other thing he said that had me rolling on the floor was during an elaboration of a storyline. He mentioned a villain’s recent diagnosis of pancreatic cancer as motivation for a diabolical act and the audience gasped as one. He looked at them and scolded, “It’s written on page nine, for Chrissakes! Spoilers? Spoilers? There’s no such thing as a spoiler. You can’t ‘spoil’ a book; people read books to have an experience, so who cares?”

Or words to that effect.

He’s right. If he was wrong, I’d only read a book once. How else can I explain my passion for revisiting The Night Circus or GRRM’s series, or Station Eleven or the Cal Leandros novels; or for multiple viewings of Orphan Black or The Newsroom, for that matter? Knowing what happens ahead of time is clearly no deterrent. It’s the joy of reconnecting with beloved characters that brings me back time and again.

I recognize that some folks prefer the slow reveal. I admit, I prefer it myself, but knowing before I saw The Empire Strikes Back that Luke Skywalker’s dad was Darth Vader did not prevent me from paying to see the movie. If you really care, you won’t care. Stephen King certainly doesn’t.

Long live the King.

Read = Write

The best gift for a writer—this writer, anyway—is always a book. It’s true that I am more inclined to write if I am reading at the same time. The more interesting the book, the more creative I tend to be. Books educate and inspire. They entertain. Sometimes they do all three at once.

Those are the best books.

I scored a bibliophilic hat trick this Christmas. Three of my dearest, most discerning friends each discovered the perfect tome to adorn my collection. Also included in the loot is a Game of Thrones colouring book—I may be scunnered at the TV show, but I remain loyal to the novels.

My annual relishing of The Night Circus ended on Christmas Eve. Perfect timing, even though it was unplanned. I started reading before vacation and found myself lost in that world once more, admiring the beauty in every scene, hanging on every word spoken by Celia and Marco in their moments together. A masterpiece of poetry in prose, of painting in words. A wonderful, magical, mystical tale that’s a good start to the holidays even though it’s not a holiday piece. If it pays homage to any occasion, it’s Hallowe’en.

Previously, I had been trying to get through a book that proved unable to engage me. The premise was a good one, but the narrative was mediocre and the characters were painful. A good book has me either reading it every night or carrying it around with me in the event of spontaneous tea breaks. With this one, days would pass between one chapter and the next; I almost had to discipline myself to pick it up of a night. Finally, with November on the horizon and no hope of finishing the sucker before my annual visit to The Night Circus, I called it quits.

Needless to say, I wrote nothing during my struggle to enjoy it. Perhaps my life was hectic enough to provide a weak excuse, but I firmly believe that whatever I am reading at any one time exerts some influence on my own production. My happy place is the space between the real and the surreal. I don’t read much non-fiction, and the autobiographies of icons are only engaging if they’re well-written. (An interesting life is not so interesting when penned by an inept hand.) My imagination can be triggered, however, by a random photo in a pretentious coffee table book—it’s true when they say a picture is worth a thousand words. Some are worth a thousand pages!

With that in mind, my next few posts are about the latest additions to my library and what I hope to achieve by reading them.

Enjoy (but not as much as I will!)

The Three-Ring Night Circus

Falling so in love with The Night Circus means that it deserves to be a hardcover addition to my library. I dropped the hint for my birthday in 2014 and no one picked it up. Then I forgot about it until Christmas, when I re-read the paperback. I dropped the hardcover hint again and, again, no one picked it up. I suspect this was because my presents had already been procured. I got some neat books in lieu and forgot once more about TNC in hardcover.

Earlier this year, I searched online and discovered that new hardcovers no longer exist. Used ones, however, are available from various sellers in various conditions for various prices. I didn’t order one because online options can be boggling and I still have my paperback. A hardcover is a nice to have, but certainly not mandatory.

My tea fairy, Treena, usually coordinates her birthday/Christmas prezzie shopping with Ter; they compare notes and such to ensure that no duplications occur. Only this year, they didn’t consult on my birthday until it was too late. Each of them had remembered my request, and each of them had gone ahead on the assumption that the other would never think of it. Once they consulted, they realized that, uh oh, a duplication was in progress. Ter’s had already arrived when Treena came by for tea—a celebration which included my acquiring season three of Orphan Black, thanks to Treena, who shares my hope that one day Ter will become equally addicted to the series and we can all be addicts together. Ter certainly knows the series’ premise, well enough to coin a clone joke when referring to the duplicate prezzie gaffe. She and Treena decided to give me both “clones” of the gift and let me choose which one to keep.

Meanwhile, bearing in mind that I had no idea what they were up to, I quietly decided to pursue my own hardcover edition of TNC. There’s a great used bookshop on SSI called Black Sheep Books, and if there was a hardcover edition to be had, surely it would be had there. Ter dropped me after lunch one day and I went over the store from floor to ceiling in search of my treasure.

No luck.

No luck at Salt Spring Books, either—though I did score a copy of Plague by CC Humphreys (murder and mayhem in Restoration England).

When we got home, Treena’s clone had arrived, so she and Ter contrived to present me with two wrapped packages on Sunday afternoon. I was a little concerned about them being wrapped. Since they were the same item, where was the element of surprise on the second package? Oh, the thing about clones, I was reminded, is that they aren’t exactly identical.

True enough. The book pictured on the right is the North American release, courtesy of Ter, and the book on the left is the UK release, by way of Treena. They’re each so beautiful that I’m keeping them both.

And I’m keeping the books, too.

Bibliography VII

“Station Eleven” – Emily St. John Mandel

Once in a while a story comes along that alters my perception of the world. This is such a story.

Written in a similar-but-not-really style as The Night Circus, it, too, is a glass box of jewels. In this instance, however, the box is tinted. The jewels within are as luminous, as colourful, as rich and multi-faceted, but seen through darkened glass, the overall effect is somber. Glorious. Terrifying. Romantic. Despairing. Panicky. Violent. Tranquil. Remorseful. Wistful. Hopeful.

Brilliant.

Those who must label everything call it a sci-fi novel, but it’s really about people: people at the end of the world, people surviving the end of the world, people creating a new world. Humans are nothing if not resilient. We’re also fairly flexible; as one of the main characters observes, we can adapt to anything.

I admit, I resisted this one at first. A friend requested it for Christmas, and when I read the dust jacket I thought, oh, cheerful. A global pandemic takes out ninety-nine percent of the earth’s population practically overnight and the remaining one percent must figure out how to continue in a world where everything and everyone they’ve known no longer exists. It’s told in such a way that the horror is broken up by vignettes culled from the characters’ lives, both before and after the flu. One twist is a main character dying of a heart attack in the opening scene, yet through flashbacks and flash forwards, his life and the people in it become integral to the proceedings. In this way, the reader is spared the stress of a chronological buildup, given a breather from the spreading panic of passengers diverted to and eventually stranded at an airport, or a freaked-out city dweller hauling grocery carts of supplies through a snowstorm to his brother’s apartment. The world after the flu features a band of travelling players moving from settlement to settlement, performing Shakespeare for the locals “because survival is insufficient”. Incredibly, Ms. Mandel manages to tie all these threads together around the central theme and paints both worlds with a stark and desperate beauty.

Why did I pick it up at last? GRRM recommended it. Erin Morgenstern wrote a blurb for it. My waiting-for-the-end-of-the-world buddy loved it, though I’m unsure why at this point. I must discuss with her when I return her copy. She loaned it to me but, again like The Night Circus, I intend to read and re-read Station Eleven, ergo a copy of my own is imminent.

On the day I finished reading, I took a long walk through the neighbourhood and paid specific attention to the things around me: careless cars speeding along the road, the infernal joggers plugged into their iPods, gaggles of tourists juggling cameras and Starbucks cups. The convenience of my cell phone, of electric light and running water. Of lawn mowers and float planes and freighters loaded with shipping containers from across the Pacific Ocean. Then I looked at the gardens and imagined them overgrown, the flowers a haphazard tangle of colour instead of neatly trimmed and deliberately placed. Butterflies and hummingbirds flitting from bloom to bloom, crows pecking idly at the grass between the rocks. The wind whispering in my ear. I know this will end someday. Whether I end before, with or after it, I don’t know. Some things will endure. Natural things. The bugs and critters and plants and sky will continue as if we were never here. So will those of us who are left.

Will we create something better the next time? Or will we just want to go home?

Festive Foliage

Work, work, work. Shop, shop, shop. Party, party, party. Oh yeah, and take the car in to have a nail pulled from a front tire—even at Christmas, life happens.

Amid the hustle/bustle of prepping food, wrapping presents, and getting together with people you haven’t seen all year, it’s easy to lose yourself in the hubbub. Ironically, during the season of giving, we often forget to give to ourselves. This doesn’t translate into buying yourself two gifts for every one you buy for someone else. Okay, maybe it does, but I’m thinking more along the lines of self-care. Taking time to paint your toenails Christmas crimson, for instance. Stopping for steamed eggnog during a whirlwind prezzie blitz through the mall. Curling up in a comfy chair with a cup of tea and The Night Circus. Little things to keep you in the spirit without succumbing to the stress of the season.

I’ve been fortunate in finding joy this Christmas. I’ve had fun dashing out on coffee breaks to buy sock stuffers, dropping my budget forecast to go for tea with a friend, and streaming carols on my work computer. Now that I’m on vacation, I’ve really enjoyed spending time looking at decorations, chatting with people, and generally absorbing the Yuletide vibe. It’s been crazy-busy as usual, but this year, I’ve been less resentful of the hectic pace. I spent Saturday morning downtown, finishing up the last of my shopping. I exchanged laughs with every store clerk I dealt with and the chocolate balsamic I sampled at the King’s Deli was divine; it didn’t matter that the rain was a steady drizzle and I had no umbrella, I was fully engaged in the moment. The eggnog cream from Chocolat didn’t hurt, either. It was a nice little reward for waiting while they sugared up the champagne truffles I was getting for someone else. Then, hiking up the street toward the car, I passed the florist and their glorious display of Christmas bouquets and paused. They were so pretty, all red and green and white, but I had no one to buy them for …

Oh, why not?

I told Ter that I got them for her … but they made me feel so loved that I think I might have done it as much for myself.

Take care of yourself today and every day, but do it especially during high-pressure holidays. You’ll give love more freely if you give a little to yourself as well.

With love,

Bibliography (Part 1)

 

“The Night Circus” – Erin Morgenstern



I wrote nothing, yesterday. I had just finished revisiting The Night Circus, and trying to produce anything in the aftermath seemed futile. It’s one of those stories so brilliantly told that I am at once inspired and intimidated. All I really wanted to do after closing the cover was burst into tears and gush about how wonderful it is. Magical. Alluring. Poignant. Misty. Melancholy. Beautiful. Dreamy. Colourful. Dazzling. Romantic. Tragic. Sweet. Stark. Fragile. Masterful. Gorgeous. The adjectives are innumerable. I rarely happen on a novel that I want to read more than once. This one, I suspect, will become an annual event. It deserves to be read over and over and over again.

My first run last winter left me breathless and in awe. This time, though I knew what was to come, I was able to comprehend it better and that made for a richer experience. It’s like a glass box full of jewels, glistening and intensely-hued, so mesmerizing that you can’t look away. You want to lift the lid and inspect every facet, to see how the light plays off the surface and reflects on your skin while you hold it. She writes with an elegant simplicity that sets you right in the scene. Her description of a dining room where the candlelight is “deep and warm and bubbling” just sends me. There’s a poetry, an artistry, in being able to write like that, to paint so richly with language and yet not overwhelm the reader with pretentious stodge.

And the story itself? Where did she come up with this thing??? A challenge between magician instructors where their students are ignorant and the circus is the venue. Only one can win, but what happens when the opponents fall in love? And what happens to the circus when they do? So there’s a morality tale as well as magic and romance; mysteries abound until pretty well the last scene – a conversation between one of the challenge instructors and a boy who can read the past. They speak of magic in terms I completely understand, so … does it exist or doesn’t it?

If The Night Circus is any indication, it most certainly does.