Better Than Dead

What would a new year be without a (boring) accounting of my reading for the year just passed?

Not surprisingly, my reading took a big hit this year, what with Life Happening and all. I only managed to finish twenty-two books—and I’m actually surprised I read that many. Sometimes it took me an entire month to finish one book. And I’m not talking weighty tomes, either.

Of the books I read, nine were by J. R. Ward. I fell into that cracktastic obsession and kept going. Insane books, really, but I love them. These are big time comfort reads for me. In fact, almost everything I finished this year was a comfort read.

Only seven of the books I finished were from the TBR pile, I’m afraid. I had hoped to alternate new/TBR throughout the year, but it didn’t happen. And only three were ebooks. It looks like I am a hopeless dinosaur. I just don’t enjoy the ebook experience and only indulge when it’s a holiday or late at night and I must start the next J. R. Ward book (et al.) immediately or the book is only available as an ebook. Yes, I understand all the arguments about saving space in my house, etc., but it doesn’t make a dent in my book acquisitiveness. I bought fewer books this year but still managed to buy four times as many as I read. I will probably be one of those old ladies whose mummified remains are found buried beneath a pile of hoarded books. I certainly own enough to build a tomb.

I’ve been reading Sherman Alexie’s wonderful collection of stories, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, on and off through the year, as well as some non-fiction, most notably Legends of the Fire Spirits: Jinn and Genies from Arabia to Zanzibar by Robert W. Lebling; some books on early nineteenth-century California and Los Angeles; Jung’s memoir, Memories, Dreams, Reflections; Henry Miller’s memoir, Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch; and Women Who Run With the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes—but I haven’t finished any of them. I pick them up (sometimes for days, sometimes for an hour) and put them down again. I don’t have the sustained concentration they need.

And that’s about it. Here’s the list of finished comfort reads:

1. The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova – new
2. Blood Challenge by Eileen Wilks – new
3. The Monsters of Templeton by Lauren Groff (restart) – TBR
4. River Marked by Patricia Briggs – new
5. Treachery in Death by J. D. Robb – new
6. A Kiss Before the Apocalypse by Thomas E. Sniegoski (ebook) – new
7. Persona Non Grata by Ruth Downie – TBR
8. Soul Song by Marjorie M. Liu – TBR
9. India Black by Carol K. Carr – TBR
10. Dark Lover by J. R. Ward – TBR/new
11. Lover Eternal by J. R. Ward – new
12. Lover Awakened by J. R. Ward (ebook) – new
13. Lover Revealed by J. R. Ward – new
14. Lover Unbound by J. R. Ward – new
15. Lover Enshrined by J. R. Ward – new
16. Lover Avenged by J. R. Ward – new

At this point in the year, I had to make myself stop reading Ward books and go on to something else for awhile.

17. Dead Reckoning by Charlaine Harris – TBR
18. Demon Marked by Meljean Brook – new
19. New York to Dallas by J. D. Robb – new
20. Heart of Steel by Meljean Brook – new
21. Lover Mine by J. R. Ward – TBR
22. Father Mine: Zsadist and Bella’s Story by J. R. Ward (ebook) – new

I suspect I’ve fallen back into the Ward obsession again here at the end of the year. *sigh*

Lately I’ve only been taking half-hour lunches at work because I need to get on the road home earlier than I used to. A half hour doesn’t seem sufficient to get any writing done once I’ve gone down to buy lunch and come back upstairs. But I’ve managed to squeeze in some “research reading,” which makes me feel as if I’m keeping my hand in as a writer. Between caregiving, a full time job, and exhaustion there is no other time slot for actual writing. I realize my research-reading-as-extension-of-writing is something of an illusion, but it’s been quite a creative illusion for all that.

Currently, I’m reading a fascinating book called Legends of the Fire Spirits: Jinn and Genies from Arabia to Zanzibar by Robert W. Lebling. It’s sparked all kinds of ideas. Curiously, most of them have been for existing stories rather than new ones, fleshing them out, solving plot issues, broadening character. None of these stories are about djinn, but the book brings up many wonderful cross-cultural themes. Anytime I read mythology of any sort it sparks loads of ideas for me, and the fact is, most Western mythology has roots in the Middle East. We share a profound cultural connection, an archetypal basis, with that part of the world, whether we care to acknowledge it or not.

This week the book sparked a ton of ideas for the Annia Sabina book I mentioned the other day. Last week it pumped out goodies for a novel I’ve been playing with for several years. Before that, I was reading The Spirit and the Flesh: Sexual Diversity in American Indian Culture by Walter L. Williams specifically to do research/get ideas for my historical fantasy, The Numberless Stars. That book did its job well and I got plenty of ideas. Before that, it was yet another something that had my mind clicking away at yet another novel.

Which is all well and very good, but it does mean I’m bouncing around a lot. That’s not an unfamiliar pattern for me when I’m between projects. I tend to bounce until something takes a firm hold and I commit a substantial amount of writing to the page. Then momentum takes over and I work through the idea, generally, until it’s finished.

But, as I said, I’ve got maybe a half-hour a day to dedicate to anything me-related, to my writing, and research reading, and cozening the muse. Unless I’m stealing time from something else I should be doing to do…this. Or something like it.

I’m itching to write. I have moments when I speak with such confidence about what the next project will be! But in truth, I’m bouncing. I may bounce until I splatter myself unless I can figure a way to steal or carve out what I need and still meet my honorable commitments.

Writing requires sacrifice. Art requires it. We’re always stealing from something else in order to do that thing which makes us feel whole. Generally from time with family and friends, from our social lives, etc. There is no easy way to do this and do it well. Even if you manage to achieve full-time artist/writer status, there will always be something you have to give up in order to do that which makes you feel whole. The question of what and how much is an individual thing. No one can make that decision for you, and sometimes the circumstances are very hard indeed.

For me, I can’t go forever with my creative channels choked off. Something has to give, but it’s impossible for me to say what at this point. In the meantime, I’ll continue to bounce and steal and hope that something anchors me before I splatter. Sometimes it’s as simple as saying, “Just do it, for God’s sake!”

Just do it. Sometimes it’s as simple and as hard as that.

1. I accidentally locked Min out of the house last night. For two hours! And after dark! She was scared and pretty glad to get back inside. I felt terrible. She probably thought she’d been abandoned/lost again. I’ll be extra careful from now on.

2. I finally finished Dead Reckoning by Charlaine Harris. I liked it okay, but you can sure tell the series is winding down. And this one seemed to peeter out just like the last one. I love Ms. Harris dearly but she can’t write action scenes worth beans. I’ve had a pathetic reading year this year. I think I’ve only managed to finished 17 books.

3. We’ve started calling the hummingbirds who frequent our yard “Nazi Buzz Bombs.” They are quite insistent when you’ve let their feeders go dry. They buzz around in the kitchen window giving out malevolent stares until they’re filled, and buzz your head when you go outside.

4. I still love reading Post Secrets, even when it makes me cry.

5. I actually find myself liking Pan Am. It’s not the T&A show I feared it would be. It’s actually about the nascent “New Woman” of the early sixties who rejected the idea that marriage and 2.5 kids were the only options for a woman’s life. There were painfully few career options for women back then: nurse, teacher, homemaker, dental hygienist, secretary/clerk, stewardess. The stewardesses were always considered the more adventurous women.

Random quote of the day:

 

“In a sense, one can never read the book that the author originally wrote, and one can never read the same book twice.”

—Edmund Wilson, The Triple Thinkers

Disclaimer:  The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Siegfried and Roy, Leonard Maltin, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.

Random quote of the day:

“There is a temperate zone in the mind, between luxurious indolence and exacting work, and it is to this region, just between laziness and labor, that summer reading belongs.”

—Henry Ward Beecher, “Summer Reading,” from Eyes and Ears

 

Disclaimer:  The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Siegfried and Roy, Leonard Maltin, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.

What books are currently on your desk?

I don’t have any books on my desk. There is a cat on my desk. However, on the table next to my reading chair there are these books:

Fairy Paths and Spirit Roads: Exploring Otherworldly Routes in the Old and New Worlds by Paul Devereux. This is a semi-anthropological exploration of landscape features which may be the remnants of “spirit roads” used in ancient religious rituals. Devereux gives directions on how to get to these places and any folk traditions that still cling to them.

The Creole by Ray La Scola. A historical romance from the 1960s.

Lover Revealed by J. R. Ward. A paranormal romance. Great escapism.

By Oak, Ash, & Thorn: Modern Celtic Shamanism by D. J. Conway. A how-to-do-it guide—which generally makes me very skeptical when dealing with something which disappeared two thousand years ago. BUT, I’m fascinated by the hints and fragments of Western shamanism that still exist and how Ms. Conway brings those together to make a coherent, modern tool for self-exploration. Not that I expect to become a shaman. I’m a writer. That’s as close to shamanhood as I expect or want to get. But I have been working on an idea about a prehistoric Western European shaman. There’s only so far Mircea Eliade is going to take a girl.

Inside the Live Reptile Tent: The Twilight World of Carnival Midway by Bruce Caron and Jeff Brouws. Beautiful picture-book exploration of this world.

The Assassin’s Cloak: An Anthology of the World’s Greatest Diarists by Irene Taylor and Alan Taylor. A compendium of diary entries for every day of the year on a wide range of subjects and perspectives. I like looking at the entries on the same day that they were written. It’s fascinating to see what someone else was experiencing on that day.

Safe and sane, all that jazz. Here’s something from another summer, another world:

A book, that—lying on your back, while the wind shakes the leaves in your drowsy ears, and insects fill the air with a sweet tenor, and bees under your window hum and drone, and birds return thanks for the seed and worms eaten—floats you up out of sleep, which yet throws its spray over you, as the sea does on men who lazily float in a summer breezy day on raft or low-edged boat,—a book that now and then drops you, and then takes you up again, that spins a silver  thread of thought from your mind fine as gossamer, and then breaks it as the wind does the spider’s web,—this is a summer book.  You never know where you left off, and do not care where you begin.  It is all beginning, and all middle, and end everywhere….

I love clover-hay reading.  Spread out on an ample mow, with the north and south barndoor wide open, with hens scratching down on the floor, and expressing themselves in short sentences to each other, now and then lifting up one of those roundelays or hen-songs that are no doubt as good to them as a psalm-tune or a love-song; with swallows flying in and out, and clouds floating over the sun, raising or lowering the light on our book. Can anything be sweeter than such reading of power, or story-weaving magician, or magister? Yes.  It is even sweeter to have the letters grow dim, and run about the page, and disappear, while the hands relax, and the book, gently swaying, comes down on your breast, and visions from within open their clear faces on your, and the hours go by so softly that you will not believe that the sun is low in the west, and that those voices are of folks out after you to come in to supper!

—Henry Ward Beecher, from “Summer Reading,” Eyes and Ears

At the risk of sounding like I’m disappearing up my own hindquarters, I wanted to refer ya’ll to a blog by Melinda Young. She mentions me by name and my post from yesterday, so it is a bit like log-rolling. However, I mostly wanted to refer interested parties there because of Melinda’s similar-but-different view of this subject, plus some remarks on traditional publishing by Lori Devoti.

So I told my mother that I had written a remembrance of Dr. Raymond La Scola. We discussed in general what I’d said. Mom never reads my stuff. I think it embarrasses her in some obscure way, like she doesn’t know what to say to me about it, so I’ve long since stopped offering it to her. But she was pleased with what I’d said about Dr. Ray.

“He used to tell you stories,” she said.

And just like that, I remembered that he had, when he wanted to distract me from some part of the exam. I’d forgotten that he was another dedicated storyteller in my life, like my father. I was surrounded by storytellers back then. No wonder I knew so early in life that I wanted to be a writer. Second grade, in fact, when Mrs. Cooper played a moody bit of music and asked us to let our imaginations go. It was the first time in my life I experienced flow, and I was addicted to it from then on. Another pantser born to the universe of writing! God save us all.

I must have told Dr. La Scola about that. Mom says that I was his patient until I was about nine, so it is possible I told him. I don’t remember doing that, but so much is lost to the haze of years. The reason I think I must have mentioned something about being a writer is because soon after I told Mom about my reminiscence, she dug that old novel of his out of the obscurity of storage and presented it to me. Man, it is somewhat the worse for wear. Not dog-eared or anything, but the tip top of the pages where it’s been closed and gathering dust for decades are real dirty, and there’s a freckling of brown spots on the pages.

And there on the back, a picture of Ray La Scola, smiling, effervescent, like he’d just finished laughing from a joke, or was just about to start in. That’s the sweet, kind smile I remember, those are the sparkling eyes. Except, dear me, they are clearly not brown.

“I remember him with brown eyes,” I told Mom.

“I think they were gray,” she said.

Yes, clearly light eyes. Though I think he had a certain brown-eyed soul.

But back to the book. He autographed the fly leaf for me, and this is what it said:

For Pamela, my favorite red-head, whose future I look forward to writing with, Best Wishes, Ray La Scola.

When I read that again after so much time, I experienced such a moment of wonderment, such an upwelling of “Ah ha!” and “So that’s where I got it from.”

“I must have told him I wanted to be a writer,” I said.

“You must have,” agreed Mom.

And this is what the back jacket says:

Ray La Scola was born in New Orleans, in an old house on Bourbon Street. Early in life, he became interested in the piano and organ, later studying at the New Orleans Conservatory of Music. His interest in writing began his sophomore year at Louisiana State University when he studied under Robert Penn Warren.

After graduating from college, the author entered medical school and while there continued the professional music career he had started at the age of twelve. Advanced medical study took him to the Chicago Medical Center and Cook County Hospital. He now practices in Santa Monica, California.

It doesn’t say anything about him being a lawyer first, so perhaps Mom misremembered that, or perhaps in the creative form of Author Bio it just didn’t fit the current narrative. I’ll never know.

And what of the book itself? Dear Reader, I haven’t had the courage to read it yet. What if I don’t like it? Mom pronounced it a “cute story,” but I mean…what if I don’t like it? Dr. Ray is probably beyond caring, so I’ll probably read it some day, but…