In October, I was a super overachiever and read 14 books:
Cell by Stephen King (reread)
Dorothy Must Die by Danielle Paige
The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers by John Gardner
No Place Like Oz by Danielle Paige
Outlining Your Novel by K.M. Weiland
Plainsong by Kent Haruf
The Winner’s Crime by Marie Rutkoski (reread)
The Essential Enneagram by David Daniels
Cane River by Lalita Tademy
Structuring Your Novel by K.M. Weiland
Envy by Anna Godbersen
Mirror in the Sky by Aditi Khorana
Shiver by Maggie Stiefvater
Personal Injuries by Scott Turow
Why so many? Partly because some of these books were shorter than my usual fare (No Place Like Oz, for example, is a novella). But maybe mostly because I was on a mission to cram in all the words this month.
Next month (tomorrow!) is the month of spitting out all the words. NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) begins in roughly 14 hours!
I will still be reading during November, because, really, I can’t not read. But I will probably read fewer than my average of ten books a month.
At this moment, I have three characters sketched in pages of words, an unknown serial killer lurking in the shadows, and the barest skeleton of a plot. This doesn’t sound like nearly enough to sit down and start writing a novel tomorrow.
But it is more than I have ever had before beginning to write. I have never had a character sketch written. I have never had more of the plot than the inciting incident, first plot point, and maybe the midpoint.
I am still terrified that I am woefully under-prepared.
November’s project: an adult thriller. I have never written an adult novel (though some of my short bits have wandered in that territory). I have never written a thriller (again, some of my short bits have wandered there).
This is going to be an adventure.
P.S. My favorite book this month was probably Shiver. I still desperately want to be Maggie Stiefvater when I grow up. Sigh.
P.P.S. Like last year, I plan to post weekly updates regarding my NaNo progress (probably on Mondays).
Monday, October 31, 2016
Monday, October 17, 2016
Cut Scene from SIGHTED
Today's bit of fiction is a snippet of a scene that didn't make it into my current work in progress. SIGHTED (the title I FINALLY decided on) is a modern-day young adult retelling of the Cassandra myth. This scene takes place after Kassandra's 17th birthday party. The two characters are Julie (Kass's best friend) and Joel (best friend of Kass's twin brother, Nik).
By the time Joel got the moped out of the parking lot and onto the road, Julie was sure she was going to make it home alive. She continued the squeals, though, because she could feel the muscle in Joel’s belly tighten in laughter every time she did it.
She never would have guessed those muscles were even there. He was tall. And looked almost painfully thin. Baggy T-shirts over skinny jeans enhanced the bean pole image. What else was he hiding?
The motor of the scooter combined with the noise of moving air to keep them from talking. All Julie could do was feel him. His stomach with her hands. His sides with her arms. His legs with her own. The muscles there tensed and pulled to keep the moped in balance. Julie thought about leaning, throwing them off balance just to make those muscles dance.
The ride wasn’t long enough. Ten minutes of talking, muscle to muscle.
Joel guided the moped to a halt at the curb in front of Julie’s house and cut the engine.
Julie was slow to slide her hands from his waist and up to the helmet on her head. She pulled off the helmet, but didn’t get off the scooter. She wanted that contact to last.
This was Joel. The goofy, odd guy she had known since the dawn of forever ago. The best friend of the guy she had imagined herself in love with her whole life. Why did she want to touch him?
Joel pulled off his own helmet and turned his upper body to quirk an eyebrow at her.
Julie bit her lip and swung off the moped to stand beside him. She held out the helmet. “Thanks for the ride.” Her tone was all business. Where was the joking that always bounced between them?
He took the helmet and tucked it into one of the bags attached to the side of his scooter. “No problem.” He turned back to her and stared.
“What?” Julie asked and ran a hand self-consciously over her hair.
Joel tipped his head and looked at her as if he was piecing together the last bits of a puzzle. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“I might go to Kass’s practice. I still need to write two papers that are due Monday.”
“Dinner?” he blurted.
“What?”
Joel took a deep breath and shook the hair back from his face. “Do you want to go to dinner?” An awkward pause descended. “With me.”
“Like a date?” Julie felt her heart pick up in her chest. She was excited at the idea of a date with Joel. This was odd, unexpected. Nik. She was in love with Nik. Right?
“Like a date. You. Me. Dinner.” Joel’s eyes bounced between Julie’s face and the toes of her shoes.
Julie smiled. A light blush crept up over her deeply tan skin. “Yeah. I think that could be fun.”
Joel’s eyes finally settled on hers. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Julie bit her lip again. “I should get inside before my dad comes out to see what’s happening. He’s a little overprotective.”
Joel nodded and moved to start his scooter.
Julie leaned forward and kissed his cheek, barely missing his mouth, before he could get too far away. “Pick me up at six?”
Joel nodded, his mouth too dry for words. He slid his helmet back on and watched Julie walk up the sidewalk to her front door.
She turned with her hand on the doorknob and waved to him. He lifted his hand in return. “Sweet.” Joel nodded to himself.
By the time Joel got the moped out of the parking lot and onto the road, Julie was sure she was going to make it home alive. She continued the squeals, though, because she could feel the muscle in Joel’s belly tighten in laughter every time she did it.
She never would have guessed those muscles were even there. He was tall. And looked almost painfully thin. Baggy T-shirts over skinny jeans enhanced the bean pole image. What else was he hiding?
The motor of the scooter combined with the noise of moving air to keep them from talking. All Julie could do was feel him. His stomach with her hands. His sides with her arms. His legs with her own. The muscles there tensed and pulled to keep the moped in balance. Julie thought about leaning, throwing them off balance just to make those muscles dance.
The ride wasn’t long enough. Ten minutes of talking, muscle to muscle.
Joel guided the moped to a halt at the curb in front of Julie’s house and cut the engine.
Julie was slow to slide her hands from his waist and up to the helmet on her head. She pulled off the helmet, but didn’t get off the scooter. She wanted that contact to last.
This was Joel. The goofy, odd guy she had known since the dawn of forever ago. The best friend of the guy she had imagined herself in love with her whole life. Why did she want to touch him?
Joel pulled off his own helmet and turned his upper body to quirk an eyebrow at her.
Julie bit her lip and swung off the moped to stand beside him. She held out the helmet. “Thanks for the ride.” Her tone was all business. Where was the joking that always bounced between them?
He took the helmet and tucked it into one of the bags attached to the side of his scooter. “No problem.” He turned back to her and stared.
“What?” Julie asked and ran a hand self-consciously over her hair.
Joel tipped his head and looked at her as if he was piecing together the last bits of a puzzle. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“I might go to Kass’s practice. I still need to write two papers that are due Monday.”
“Dinner?” he blurted.
“What?”
Joel took a deep breath and shook the hair back from his face. “Do you want to go to dinner?” An awkward pause descended. “With me.”
“Like a date?” Julie felt her heart pick up in her chest. She was excited at the idea of a date with Joel. This was odd, unexpected. Nik. She was in love with Nik. Right?
“Like a date. You. Me. Dinner.” Joel’s eyes bounced between Julie’s face and the toes of her shoes.
Julie smiled. A light blush crept up over her deeply tan skin. “Yeah. I think that could be fun.”
Joel’s eyes finally settled on hers. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Julie bit her lip again. “I should get inside before my dad comes out to see what’s happening. He’s a little overprotective.”
Joel nodded and moved to start his scooter.
Julie leaned forward and kissed his cheek, barely missing his mouth, before he could get too far away. “Pick me up at six?”
Joel nodded, his mouth too dry for words. He slid his helmet back on and watched Julie walk up the sidewalk to her front door.
She turned with her hand on the doorknob and waved to him. He lifted his hand in return. “Sweet.” Joel nodded to himself.
Monday, October 3, 2016
Chuck Wendig Made Me Write My Ghost Story
Chuck Wendig asked the interwebs (as least the part that reads his blog) to write a bit of non-fiction this week. He asked for true stories of the scary, the weird, the supernatural.
This one’s for you, Chuck.
Taos, New Mexico. Located in the midst of The Land of Enchantment. If you’ve ever been there, you might have noticed the whole state has a little something extra. A buzz. A vibe.
This is a piece of land that is older than it is. Fuller than it is.
Strange things happen here.
Summer. 1997. Not-yet-twenty-year-old-me.
I drove from Dallas to Taos for a month-long Shakespeare intensive at the SMU campus. I got lost on the way, which meant I was the last of our group to arrive. This meant I didn’t get to choose my bed, I got the leftovers.
Girls were housed in one large cabin, guys in another. Each cabin had a tiny kitchenette, a slightly larger living room, a multi-person bathroom and one huge bunk room. The bunk room in the girls cabin had twelve sets of bunk beds. And one lonely single bed.
You might expect that the single bed was the first one claimed. But, no. It was the only one left when I arrived.
This single bed was right next to the doorway of the bunk room. The doorway that had no door. I was basically sleeping in the hallway.
I didn’t care. I wasn’t there to sleep. I was there to swing a quarter-staff, run in the mountains, practice tai chi, and maybe work on some Shakespeare.
Plus, the location of my bed was handy when I had to pee in the middle of the night.
And we arrive at my tale of the supernatural.
It is the darkest part of the night. I have run to the bathroom, a mere fifteen steps from my bed. I step out of the bathroom, headed back to bed. From my right, I hear the long, low, creak of a door swinging.
I turn my head and catch the door to the furnace-room as it finishes closing.
I am the only one awake.
I have never seen the furnace door open.
I run.
Middle-of-the-night-scary-sound-logic tells me to jump on my bed and pull the covers over my head. I obey. I know that a sheet and thin blanket will not really protect me from anything. I know that it’s all I have.
I wait. I hear nothing.
Now I need to SEE. Is there someone in the room with me? Something?
I lower the covers and peek over the edge.
There is no one there. Nothing there.
Until there is.
I feel the mattress sink under the weight of someone sitting on the bed next to my knee. In the dim light of the night-light, I see the covers dent as someone settles next to me.
There is no breath. I am ice.
A weight settles on my leg. A warm hand.
I can breathe again. The touch is comforting. Soothing.
The bed shifts again, this time with weight leaving the mattress. She stands. I can feel her there, looking down on me, for just a moment. Even though I can’t see her, I know she is a she.
I am able to follow her movement once she leaves my bed. I see a dent on one bed, then another, as she moves around the room. She visits every sleeping girl.
She checks on us.
This was the only night I caught her in the act.
I don’t believe it is the only night she visited.
This one’s for you, Chuck.
Taos, New Mexico. Located in the midst of The Land of Enchantment. If you’ve ever been there, you might have noticed the whole state has a little something extra. A buzz. A vibe.
This is a piece of land that is older than it is. Fuller than it is.
Strange things happen here.
Summer. 1997. Not-yet-twenty-year-old-me.
I drove from Dallas to Taos for a month-long Shakespeare intensive at the SMU campus. I got lost on the way, which meant I was the last of our group to arrive. This meant I didn’t get to choose my bed, I got the leftovers.
Girls were housed in one large cabin, guys in another. Each cabin had a tiny kitchenette, a slightly larger living room, a multi-person bathroom and one huge bunk room. The bunk room in the girls cabin had twelve sets of bunk beds. And one lonely single bed.
You might expect that the single bed was the first one claimed. But, no. It was the only one left when I arrived.
This single bed was right next to the doorway of the bunk room. The doorway that had no door. I was basically sleeping in the hallway.
I didn’t care. I wasn’t there to sleep. I was there to swing a quarter-staff, run in the mountains, practice tai chi, and maybe work on some Shakespeare.
Plus, the location of my bed was handy when I had to pee in the middle of the night.
And we arrive at my tale of the supernatural.
It is the darkest part of the night. I have run to the bathroom, a mere fifteen steps from my bed. I step out of the bathroom, headed back to bed. From my right, I hear the long, low, creak of a door swinging.
I turn my head and catch the door to the furnace-room as it finishes closing.
I am the only one awake.
I have never seen the furnace door open.
I run.
Middle-of-the-night-scary-sound-logic tells me to jump on my bed and pull the covers over my head. I obey. I know that a sheet and thin blanket will not really protect me from anything. I know that it’s all I have.
I wait. I hear nothing.
Now I need to SEE. Is there someone in the room with me? Something?
I lower the covers and peek over the edge.
There is no one there. Nothing there.
Until there is.
I feel the mattress sink under the weight of someone sitting on the bed next to my knee. In the dim light of the night-light, I see the covers dent as someone settles next to me.
There is no breath. I am ice.
A weight settles on my leg. A warm hand.
I can breathe again. The touch is comforting. Soothing.
The bed shifts again, this time with weight leaving the mattress. She stands. I can feel her there, looking down on me, for just a moment. Even though I can’t see her, I know she is a she.
I am able to follow her movement once she leaves my bed. I see a dent on one bed, then another, as she moves around the room. She visits every sleeping girl.
She checks on us.
This was the only night I caught her in the act.
I don’t believe it is the only night she visited.
Friday, September 30, 2016
The Rose Society (September Reads)
I read 11 books in September:
The Laws of Our Fathers by Scott Turow
The Young Elites by Marie Lu
The Art and Craft of Storytelling by Nancy Lamb
The Rose Society by Marie Lu
The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux
Challenger Deep by Neal Shusterman
World After by Susan Ee
The Light Fantastic by Sarah Combs (reviewed for The Washington Independent Review of Books- post coming soon!)
Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell
Scarlet by Marissa Meyer
Hooked by Les Edgerton
I received The Rose Society through a GoodReads Giveaway. I then realized I hadn’t yet read the first book in the series (The Young Elites).
(Insert long pause while I obtain and read first book.)
Since I read these two books back to back, it’s going to be difficult for me to talk only about The Rose Society, especially since my main comment applies to both.
These books are good. And I had a very hard time reading them. Yes, I know that sounds contradictory.
The thing is, any review or commentary on a book is as much about the reader of the book as it is about the book. We bring all of our life experience with us when we sit down to read. That colors the story in a way that the writer can never begin to imagine when they write it.
Marie Lu is a great writer. She has crafted a compelling plot, with developed characters. But I found that I was unable to get lost in the story.
My problem is Adelina, the main character.
She is not a good guy. She wants the crown. Not to help her country. Not to help her family and friends. She just wants the crown. On her head.
That does not make her unlikeable. People want what they want.
There are always reasons.
In this series, there are definitely reasons for Adelina’s behavior and choices. One of the reasons is mentioned throughout the books. Her alignment. She aligns with ambition. She wants power. For the sake of having power.
The books present this as something inherent to her nature. It’s just how she is. She was born this way.
I can go with that. To a point. For me, though, the story is richer if I then see the character CHOOSE to follow her nature. I want to see a character decide that they are going to do the bad thing, even though they know it is the bad thing.
As I was reading these books, I missed those choices. I read the story as Adelina being driven by something she didn’t have control over.
After I finished, I started to question my reading. Adelina does make choices. She makes those choices even though they hurt her, rip her to shreds.
I overlooked them as I read. Which made me dig around inside my own head a bit.
What I realized is that I am not like Adelina. I am not driven by ambition. I do not want power. Please, no. That made it hard for me to see her choices for what they were. Because I would not make the choices she makes. I would not sacrifice what she sacrifices.
That does not make her choices wrong. That does not make her a poorly written character. That does not make this book less than great.
I will read the rest of the series. I will try harder to lose myself in Adelina’s world, in her choices when I do.
The Laws of Our Fathers by Scott Turow
The Young Elites by Marie Lu
The Art and Craft of Storytelling by Nancy Lamb
The Rose Society by Marie Lu
The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux
Challenger Deep by Neal Shusterman
World After by Susan Ee
The Light Fantastic by Sarah Combs (reviewed for The Washington Independent Review of Books- post coming soon!)
Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell
Scarlet by Marissa Meyer
Hooked by Les Edgerton
I received The Rose Society through a GoodReads Giveaway. I then realized I hadn’t yet read the first book in the series (The Young Elites).
(Insert long pause while I obtain and read first book.)
Since I read these two books back to back, it’s going to be difficult for me to talk only about The Rose Society, especially since my main comment applies to both.
These books are good. And I had a very hard time reading them. Yes, I know that sounds contradictory.
The thing is, any review or commentary on a book is as much about the reader of the book as it is about the book. We bring all of our life experience with us when we sit down to read. That colors the story in a way that the writer can never begin to imagine when they write it.
Marie Lu is a great writer. She has crafted a compelling plot, with developed characters. But I found that I was unable to get lost in the story.
My problem is Adelina, the main character.
She is not a good guy. She wants the crown. Not to help her country. Not to help her family and friends. She just wants the crown. On her head.
That does not make her unlikeable. People want what they want.
There are always reasons.
In this series, there are definitely reasons for Adelina’s behavior and choices. One of the reasons is mentioned throughout the books. Her alignment. She aligns with ambition. She wants power. For the sake of having power.
The books present this as something inherent to her nature. It’s just how she is. She was born this way.
I can go with that. To a point. For me, though, the story is richer if I then see the character CHOOSE to follow her nature. I want to see a character decide that they are going to do the bad thing, even though they know it is the bad thing.
As I was reading these books, I missed those choices. I read the story as Adelina being driven by something she didn’t have control over.
After I finished, I started to question my reading. Adelina does make choices. She makes those choices even though they hurt her, rip her to shreds.
I overlooked them as I read. Which made me dig around inside my own head a bit.
What I realized is that I am not like Adelina. I am not driven by ambition. I do not want power. Please, no. That made it hard for me to see her choices for what they were. Because I would not make the choices she makes. I would not sacrifice what she sacrifices.
That does not make her choices wrong. That does not make her a poorly written character. That does not make this book less than great.
I will read the rest of the series. I will try harder to lose myself in Adelina’s world, in her choices when I do.
Thursday, September 15, 2016
Reader Baggage
Usually in the middle of the month, I post a bit of fiction. This month, I have something a little different. There is something my brain has been obsessively chewing on, and I feel the need to put my thoughts out into the world. Hold on, this might be a bit rambly.
I am a reader. I am also a writer.
That means that when I read something, I am reading on two levels. Part of me is reading for the pure enjoyment of reading. I love to get lost in the world of a story, meet new characters, learn things about the world through fiction.
Part of me reads as a writer. When I do get lost in a story, fall in love with a character, or have an aha moment I think about it for days. I try to pull it apart and figure out what the author did that made me love it so much.
I do the same thing when I don’t love a story, when a character just doesn’t click for me.
My goal is to learn the “tricks of the trade.” If I can figure out what an author did well, or not so well, I can imitate the great and avoid the not-so-great.
Here’s the catch. About 98% of the time, I realize that my love (or less than love) is not really about what the author did. A huge portion of it is what I bring with me to the story.
Every reader brings their entire life experience with them to the page. It colors how they see the characters, if they buy into the choices the characters make, if they see the world of the story as real.
Authors have zero control over what their readers bring to the page.
This is huge to realize and tuck away as a writer. This industry (yes, it’s an industry) is completely subjective. One agent/ editor will love your work. Another will think it is trash. A smidgen of this is about your skill as a writer. The bulk is about the interaction between the reader and your words.
A lot of thoughts followed from this.
There is no way to write a story that every reader will like. This is a huge weight off my shoulders as a writer. My job is to sit down and write the best story that I can. My job is tell the truth for this character, in this situation. I should write without the reader in mind. I can’t control anyone’s response to what I write.
But there is a huge catch buried in there. Did you see it?
The truth.
That is the catch.
The truth is a tricky, slippery thing. The truth is unique to the person that holds that truth. It is built over a lifetime of experiences, of interaction with the world around them.
My truth is not the same as yours.
This makes the writer’s job complicated. You can only write one truth at a time. If you try to include everyone’s truth in the same story, you will end up with a jumbled mess that no one can appreciate (or possibly understand).
You could choose to stick to your own truth.
This is okay. It is an honest way to write. You can say, this is who I am. These are the stories I choose to tell.
But I think my responsibility as a writer is to push past my own truth. My job, every day, is to take in the world around me. To interact with, and listen to, the voices of people around me. To listen closely to their truths.
My job is to feed my truth, let it grow. See where it intersects the truths of others. Where it lies in opposition.
And then, when I sit down to write, let it all go. At least consciously. When I write, my job is to put pen to paper (or fingers to keys) and tell the truth. The biggest truth that I can. The truth that acknowledges the multitude of truths in the world.
I have to trust that the truth I put in my story will mesh with the truths of some of my readers. Or push against their truths in a way that gives them an aha moment.
I am a reader. I am also a writer.
That means that when I read something, I am reading on two levels. Part of me is reading for the pure enjoyment of reading. I love to get lost in the world of a story, meet new characters, learn things about the world through fiction.
Part of me reads as a writer. When I do get lost in a story, fall in love with a character, or have an aha moment I think about it for days. I try to pull it apart and figure out what the author did that made me love it so much.
I do the same thing when I don’t love a story, when a character just doesn’t click for me.
My goal is to learn the “tricks of the trade.” If I can figure out what an author did well, or not so well, I can imitate the great and avoid the not-so-great.
Here’s the catch. About 98% of the time, I realize that my love (or less than love) is not really about what the author did. A huge portion of it is what I bring with me to the story.
Every reader brings their entire life experience with them to the page. It colors how they see the characters, if they buy into the choices the characters make, if they see the world of the story as real.
Authors have zero control over what their readers bring to the page.
This is huge to realize and tuck away as a writer. This industry (yes, it’s an industry) is completely subjective. One agent/ editor will love your work. Another will think it is trash. A smidgen of this is about your skill as a writer. The bulk is about the interaction between the reader and your words.
A lot of thoughts followed from this.
There is no way to write a story that every reader will like. This is a huge weight off my shoulders as a writer. My job is to sit down and write the best story that I can. My job is tell the truth for this character, in this situation. I should write without the reader in mind. I can’t control anyone’s response to what I write.
But there is a huge catch buried in there. Did you see it?
The truth.
That is the catch.
The truth is a tricky, slippery thing. The truth is unique to the person that holds that truth. It is built over a lifetime of experiences, of interaction with the world around them.
My truth is not the same as yours.
This makes the writer’s job complicated. You can only write one truth at a time. If you try to include everyone’s truth in the same story, you will end up with a jumbled mess that no one can appreciate (or possibly understand).
You could choose to stick to your own truth.
This is okay. It is an honest way to write. You can say, this is who I am. These are the stories I choose to tell.
But I think my responsibility as a writer is to push past my own truth. My job, every day, is to take in the world around me. To interact with, and listen to, the voices of people around me. To listen closely to their truths.
My job is to feed my truth, let it grow. See where it intersects the truths of others. Where it lies in opposition.
And then, when I sit down to write, let it all go. At least consciously. When I write, my job is to put pen to paper (or fingers to keys) and tell the truth. The biggest truth that I can. The truth that acknowledges the multitude of truths in the world.
I have to trust that the truth I put in my story will mesh with the truths of some of my readers. Or push against their truths in a way that gives them an aha moment.
Monday, September 5, 2016
August Reads- The Birth House
In August, I read 9 books:
Hill of Dreams by Arthur Machen
Cinder by Marissa Meyer
Writing and Selling the YA Novel by K.L. Going
Double Feature by Owen King
Rumors by Anna Godbersen
The Winner’s Curse by Marie Rutkoski (reread)
The Birth House by Ami McKay
The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater
Writing Blockbuster Plots by Martha Alderson
The honest truth is that my favorite read of the month was probably The Winner’s Curse. But since it’s a reread for me (I am rereading the first two books in the series before I read the final book), it feels like cheating to talk about it again.
A very close second was The Birth House. I wish I could remember how this book ended up on my TBR list, but I have no idea.
From the description on the book flap, I was expecting a nice, chick lit story about a midwife. Those elements were in the book, for sure. But those elements do not sum up the experience of reading this story.
This is really a story about the power of women and all the forms that power takes. There is wisdom, violence, sex, manipulation, love, honesty, and strength.
The men in the story have a difficult time dealing with the power of women. They see hysteria, witches, and evil.
It should surprise no one that the women win in the end.
And yet it will.
It does in the story. It does in real life. Everyday.
We continue to allow ourselves to be surprised when women are strong. Powerful. Fierce. When they stand up for themselves and what they believe.
When they do not bow to the wishes of the men around them.
I have wandered. That is the power of the story. There is a massive point tucked into this entertaining tale of one woman and her quest to help other women bring babies into the world in the way they know is best.
Read it. Enjoy it. Let it stew.
Hill of Dreams by Arthur Machen
Cinder by Marissa Meyer
Writing and Selling the YA Novel by K.L. Going
Double Feature by Owen King
Rumors by Anna Godbersen
The Winner’s Curse by Marie Rutkoski (reread)
The Birth House by Ami McKay
The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater
Writing Blockbuster Plots by Martha Alderson
The honest truth is that my favorite read of the month was probably The Winner’s Curse. But since it’s a reread for me (I am rereading the first two books in the series before I read the final book), it feels like cheating to talk about it again.
A very close second was The Birth House. I wish I could remember how this book ended up on my TBR list, but I have no idea.
From the description on the book flap, I was expecting a nice, chick lit story about a midwife. Those elements were in the book, for sure. But those elements do not sum up the experience of reading this story.
This is really a story about the power of women and all the forms that power takes. There is wisdom, violence, sex, manipulation, love, honesty, and strength.
The men in the story have a difficult time dealing with the power of women. They see hysteria, witches, and evil.
It should surprise no one that the women win in the end.
And yet it will.
It does in the story. It does in real life. Everyday.
We continue to allow ourselves to be surprised when women are strong. Powerful. Fierce. When they stand up for themselves and what they believe.
When they do not bow to the wishes of the men around them.
I have wandered. That is the power of the story. There is a massive point tucked into this entertaining tale of one woman and her quest to help other women bring babies into the world in the way they know is best.
Read it. Enjoy it. Let it stew.
Monday, August 15, 2016
Duality
He is dark where I am light.
This is what everyone sees.
My hair golden blond. His jet black. My eyes blue. His the deepest of browns. My skin pale, unmarked by a single freckle. His a rich olivey tan.
They see the white and gold of my cheer tunic against the black of his T-shirt, the slate gray of his hoodie. My smile bright next to his dark mask. My laughter echoes against his solid silence.
No one sees under the facade. Alone, together, we are more than our shells.
Dimitri sits stretched on my bedroom floor, my bed bracing his back. He laughs as I silently move about my room, making a token attempt to straighten the clutter.
The movement makes me warm. Too warm to stay sheltered in the long-sleeve sweater that hides my skin.
I peel away the prickly layer. Underneath, a black camisole hides the worst of me.
His laughter stops as the sweater skims over my head.
I think it is appreciation of my almost perfect form. Then I look down.
The cami has not protected me. It slid up my torso, drawn in the tracks of my sweater. My stomach is bare.
I toss the sweater aside and lock eyes with Dimitri as I tug the traitorous cami back into place. I will him not to acknowledge what I don’t want to talk about.
That’s why it is the way it is. I don’t want to talk about it.
The pressure of not talking builds. I am always worried that I will rupture, spill out into the world. My mess will infest everyone and everything around me.
A quick slip of a blade across my skin lets a little out at a time. It dribbles down the drain, washed away by running water.
It’s not cutting. It’s pressure management.
Dimitri stretches out a hand. Catches my fingers in his own. Pulls me down onto the floor beside him.
“Tell me, Tess.”
His words are a command. They pull the excess out of me.
This is what no one sees.
He is light where I am dark.
This is what everyone sees.
My hair golden blond. His jet black. My eyes blue. His the deepest of browns. My skin pale, unmarked by a single freckle. His a rich olivey tan.
They see the white and gold of my cheer tunic against the black of his T-shirt, the slate gray of his hoodie. My smile bright next to his dark mask. My laughter echoes against his solid silence.
No one sees under the facade. Alone, together, we are more than our shells.
Dimitri sits stretched on my bedroom floor, my bed bracing his back. He laughs as I silently move about my room, making a token attempt to straighten the clutter.
The movement makes me warm. Too warm to stay sheltered in the long-sleeve sweater that hides my skin.
I peel away the prickly layer. Underneath, a black camisole hides the worst of me.
His laughter stops as the sweater skims over my head.
I think it is appreciation of my almost perfect form. Then I look down.
The cami has not protected me. It slid up my torso, drawn in the tracks of my sweater. My stomach is bare.
I toss the sweater aside and lock eyes with Dimitri as I tug the traitorous cami back into place. I will him not to acknowledge what I don’t want to talk about.
That’s why it is the way it is. I don’t want to talk about it.
The pressure of not talking builds. I am always worried that I will rupture, spill out into the world. My mess will infest everyone and everything around me.
A quick slip of a blade across my skin lets a little out at a time. It dribbles down the drain, washed away by running water.
It’s not cutting. It’s pressure management.
Dimitri stretches out a hand. Catches my fingers in his own. Pulls me down onto the floor beside him.
“Tell me, Tess.”
His words are a command. They pull the excess out of me.
This is what no one sees.
He is light where I am dark.
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