I'm your bookseller, not your "honey"

I have come to terms with the fact that I come across as a very sweet, helpful, kind person. I hold open doors for people, I help carry bags, I put change in meters. I have round cheeks and dimples and am soft-spoken. I dress like Nancy Drew. In regular, private life, people call me by endearments on a regular basis. I don't go a week without someone--some stranger--calling me "sweetie", "dear", or "honey". Despite what I might think, I may actually just be a nice person, and, in the end, those people who chose to give me names usually reserved to their nearest and dearest are probably paying me a compliment.

But I want to talk about why this practice is not okay when it occurs at my work. Yes, I am in retail. Yes, I am very helpful and knowledgeable and friendly. Yes, I am the youngest staff member. That does not make it okay to call me "dear" or to pat me on the shoulder. That does not make it okay to call me "sweetie" when I give you your change. I'm a professional, doing my job. It might not look like a particularly difficult or glamorous job--"You work in a book shop? You must get to read all the time!"--but, like all things, it is more complex than it looks. I deserve your respect, just as much as you deserve mine. I may be at your service, but I am not your servant.

Maybe this sounds harsh, especially since I am willing to let people in my day to day life call me by whatever endearment they see fit. But there is an uncomfortable edge of condescension, the sensation that one is lesser than, of belittlement that stings when a customer calls me "honey".  It demeans me, my work, and my skills. It is taking liberties. Save endearments for times when I'm not working; let me do my job with the same respect and courtesy that I show you. 

Readers': Going Postal

Sometimes I wonder if the post people think that I am crazy.

I wouldn't mind if they did. I mean, it is a little odd to be sending and receiving so much personal mail in these days of email and texting and tweeting and whatever else people are doing. After all, the venerable United States Postal Service is a failing business, trapped by the obligation to explain each and every business move to a Congress that clearly couldn't care less about the postal system. I recall particularly pathetic statements from the former Postmaster General, Patrick Donahoe, toeing a careful line between begging for more money and begging to be able to increase rates, so that he wouldn't have to beg for more money next year. The USPS should be jolly well grateful that I use letters as a means of communication.

But the oddest thing about the large volume of letters between me and my best friend is that we talk every day on more technologically advanced media. We text, we snap-chat, we email. Sometimes, we even phone each other. Surely there isn't anything left to write handwritten letters about.

There always is. There are things that are easier to tell a friend in writing; there are things that are easier to discover about yourself when you're writing it down, rather than speaking it, typing it, or, worse, typing it with one's thumbs. It is a means of journaling, but with an audience, one that cares about what you're feeling, one that will offer you support and advice somewhere down the road.

Also, letters are the most protected form of communication. Conversations can be overheard, the NSA reads our email, police have access to the GPS in our cell phones, but, by God, it is still a felony to open our mail. If one were to plan a criminal act--and obviously, that's not at all what we're doing--the USPS is still the best means of plotting. (It actually goes the same way--the Feds got Ponzi on mail fraud)

The pure physicality of letters helps center a life-long discussion firmly in reality. Letters, as one of my favorite books, Going Postal (Terry Pratchett), points out, provide a sense of reality that every other form of message cannot. You cannot doodle on the envelope of an email; you cannot add dinosaur stickers to a text. Maybe that picture of your cat will get there faster if you text it, but your friend can't frame it.

I'm not even going to talk about the joy of love letters, the kind professing eternal romance that one ties up with a ruby red ribbon. I don't really get love letters, in the most traditional sense. In a sense, in this time of digital communique, all letters are a protestation of love. It takes time and thought and, most importantly, a stamp to get a letter.

Incidentally, and, not to be egging anyone on here, Readers' has some great notecards, stationery sets, and postcards. Just in case you happen to feel like sending someone some love today.

Crossposted: Readers' Books Facebook

10 Ten Second YA Book Reviews

The Sin Eater's Daughter, Melinda Salisbury: In a medieval, low technology world, an intersection of religious traditions and political machinations surrounds a teenage avatar of a goddess who can kill with a single touch. For those who like politics with their love triangles.

Darkest Minds, Alexandra Bracken: Like Children of Men meets X-men, but less well thought-out: if all the kids in the world develop dangerous psychic powers, why isn't anyone worried about the future generations of the world? Endearingly, contains no love triangle; sadly, characters are unfleshed to the point of being mere stand-ins for people.

Rook, Sharon Cameron: In the far future, the past repeats: a re-working of The Scarlet Pimpernel that features a tough and fallible female freedom fighter in the ruins of Paris. Marvelous and daring adventures; Dickensian coincidences and many layers of disguise and connection; unfortunate tendency towards the typical characters (loyal servants, love-lorn compatriots, weak and ailing father).

13 Little Blue Envelopes, Maureen Johnson: One of the best books for teens about to travel. A teenager sent on an adventure with $1000 from her deceased aunt, learning all the things to and not to do when abroad. A satisfying ending that does not depend on a love triangle.

Dove Arising, Karen Bao: Hunger Games or Divergent, but on the moon. Mostly interesting for the multiculturalism and the fast paced adventure; characters tend to be stereotyped and the love triangle between "intriguing new guy" and "long term male friend" is beyond old.

Out of the Easy, Ruta Septys: Set in the 1950's American South, the daughter of a prostitute lives in a New Orleans brothel, but aspires to more. Despite the questionable historical accuracy (can't say for sure, but seems rather far-fetched), this story is both heart-touching and firmly placed in reality.

I Was Here, Gayle Forman: One of the crowd of teen-suicide novels, Forman's stands out with a story about the aftermath of suicide. The best friend of a victim searches to find meaning in the act and, in the process, discovers more about herself and her friend. Particularly useful to teens and comforting to parents afraid of copy-cat behavior is the author's note, which assures teens that they are not alone, and provides accurate information on places to get help. 

Atlantia, Ally Condie: In a departure from her dystopian series, Condie has created an elaborate city-state under the sea. Religion as an opiate for the masses as well as complex sociological themes makes what could have been a dull repeat of teen-with-super-power-dealing-with-family-issues more interesting. Condie chose to consider why such a society would exist, showing great growth from her Matched series. 

The Wrath and the Dawn, Renee Ahdieh: A fairy tale retelling not set in Western Europe at last! However, the excitement dies down when faced with wooden characterizations and unlikely motivations. Shahrzad deserves better than another staid love triangle. 

Salvage, Andrea Duncan: A fantastic imagining of the future, featuring a teen who barely escapes from persecution by her space dwelling, misogynistic family. She lands first in a community existing on the trash island in the Pacific and, with the help of very different female mentors, learns to be strong and self-sufficient, finally able to chose her own path. An inspiring and thoughtful novel. 

Crossposted: Children of an Idle Mind

List: Good things to ask your local bookseller vs. things not to ask your bookseller

Do this:

1. What was your favorite book this year?
2. If you had [insert budget here], what would you buy in the store?
3. I need a gift for a child [insert age and gender here] who likes to read.
4. When is the next book in this series coming out and what should I read until then?
5. This book was put away in the wrong place and I didn't want to put it away wrong as well.

Not this:

1. Do you know the title/author of this book so I can get it off the internet?
2. Can I have your wifi password?
3. Why isn't this out in paperback?
4. I'm here all the time; can you hire me?
5. Why don't you have this book in the store, since I loved it?

Bonus points: Don't tell us we're a dying breed. Say we're all very pretty instead.

Readers': Why I am not in Law School

I love the law. This is not a new love, nor one I acted upon--I wasn’t pre-law, for example. When the O.J. Simpson trial happened, which was when I was around five, I watched the whole thing. Looking back now, I’m mildly surprised that my mother encouraged this, but she is against censorship and apparently I was interested. According to my parents, I would walk from one end of the room to the other, imitating the lawyers by pontificating “On the one hand…” and then, upon reaching the other end of the room “On the other hand…” I don’t really remember anything about the whole thing besides the fact that I really liked the idea of being the judge, and was crushed when I was informed that to be a judge, you had to be a lawyer first. I was clearly not impressed by that fact, even then, which proves that, even if I am nothing else, I am at least consist.

Law school sounds like an absolute blast. I don’t think many people realize what a radical and precious growing document our constitution really is. It doesn’t promise that to be American is to be perfect; it only promises to give us a chance. Even just the first amendment gives us this amazing array of rights: we can believe in what we like, we can print it and share it with other people, we can be in groups of as many people as we like, and we can send petitions to our government. Most Americans forget how much freedom that gives us. But even when writing it, those privileged white men decided to make room for changes, for a world that looks very little like it did then. Can you think of any politicians who would do the same now?

And therein lies the rub: American law, as a set of ideals to live up to, is a thing to admire and to be proud of. But that set of ideals have been prostituted to suit selfish needs: the law has been pimped out by the lawyers.

Okay, there are good lawyers out there. There’s the ACLU, there’s ABFFE (American Booksellers Foundation for Free Expression). There’s overworked, but still idealistic, ADA’s and PD’s out there. But there are also the lawyers that make my skin crawl, people who use loopholes and trickery to win victories that should never be won and make loads of money while doing it.

What I’d really like, is to be a lawyer without having to deal with other lawyers. But even then, one would have to attempt to help people when they are at their worst: when they are losing their homes, or making huge mistakes, or watching love die. I suppose what I’d really like is to be able to skip the whole step of practicing law and be allowed to study it, and then make rulings on it. Basically, I just want to skip being a lawyer altogether.

Readers': Fruitful Labors

Two of my favorite people--my father and my best friend--love to garden. My father watches the progress of his squash plants with great--and justifiable--pride. My friend sends me pictures of her seedlings on a weekly basis. They like to think of the relative pH levels of their respective garden beds; of the compost that needs to be created and the fertilizing that needs to be done. My dad likes to extol the meditative properties of weeding. They love their gardens; I, to my shame, do not. I like dealing with the products of gardens. I like drying and preserving, freezing and canning. But plants, excepting hardy herb beds, tend to wither under my indifferent care.

One of my favorite cookbooks, The Victory Garden Cookbook, seems to have been written for families just like mine. There’s advice for people who grow the vegetables, both common and obscure, and advice for what on earth to do with all these freaking zucchinis. (There’s a particularly good recipe for zucchini spice cake, which has the merit of not tasting at all like a zucchini) It gives information about carrot’s love of sandy soil, and how to tell when to pick kale. I find this book comfortingly inclusive of both sides of the gardening life: those who care for the plants, and those who love the produce.

This year, mindful of drought restrictions, my family is doing all we can to save as much water as possible, but none of us ever considered cutting back on the vegetable garden. Lawns? Sure. But just try to take away our fresh tomatoes.

The Victory Garden concept reaches back into WWII, when the act of creating a vegetable garden was an act of patriotism. (Before that, the home vegetable garden was merely a way of saving money during the Depression; prudence and practicality rarely equals victory, at least in the broader cultural milieu). But the vegetable garden reaches far back into the distant past. Small gardens came before larger farms: they could be the first signs of settled human habitation. In other words, growing one’s own food is a sign of permanency. It is a promise to stay in one place, for at least as long as it takes for plants to bear fruit. A garden means home.

Maybe I’m not a gardener, but maybe that doesn’t matter. The art of gardening is nothing without the art of knowing what to do with the results: what good would masses of eggplants do anyone without someone knowing what do with them? In these California days of water restriction, we all have to weigh our hydration choices. In a recent op-ed in the LA Times, lawns are praised and defended as the heart of the middle class home and neighborhood. In my mind, the lawn matters much less than the garden: that which marks our desire to care for ourselves by caring for the land. It is the humble vegetable garden marking the boundaries of home that I shall make sacrifices for. I’d never take a two minute shower for a lawn; I’ll always do it for the tomatoes.

Older, better, faster, longer: new robots in sci-fi/fantasy

The Mechanical
Ian Tregillis
440pgs
Copy: ARC
Read: 27 April 2015
Spoilers: as few as I could
Recommend to: People who like to think and like sci-fi; fans of Asimov; fans of Susanna Clarke; maybe fans of George R.R. Martin; if you liked "The Dark Tower" series

So Susanna Clarke readers and Asimov readers actually tend to be pretty different. So are "Song of Fire and Ice" and "The Dark Tower". You've got alternate history vs. robotic future and two epic fantasy series (complete with loads of sex) written in completely different styles and settings. What makes The Mechanical so interesting is that it pays homage to all of these disparate themes and styles while still remaining completely individual and distinctive.

Tregillis has created a world that differs from ours in that the Dutch became the great world power, not on the power of trade or sail, but due to their mystic creation of mechanical slaves. Created by the inclusive and terrifying Alchemist Guild, these Clakkers are controlled by the Guild and the royal family and rented out to wealthy families or for production needs. These Clakkers, despite independent thought and an underground language, are unable to rebel against the orders of their owners--indeed, any order creates an imperative pain until that order is carried out. They live hundreds of years, trapped within their own bodies.

Despite these geases, some Clakkers speak to one another of Free Will and others mysteriously develop it. The Alchemists destroy them as soon as they are discovered, throwing them into the great Forge. 

Against this background, the Dutch are increasing their territory in the New World, fighting against the last stronghold of the French court. In New France, the female spymaster (the Tallyrand) Bernice, Vimcomtess is desperate to maintain their foothold in the world and to fight back against the insatiable power of the Clakker backed Dutch, while also fighting against her own court politics. On the other side, the female head of the Clakker police force and head torturer (cleverly called Tuinier--chief gardener), Anastasia Bell begins to wield a terrifying new technology that questions the very existence of any kind of Free Will at all. Jax, a lowly servitor mechanical, is thrown into this complex tangle with about the same effect as throwing in a grenade. 

While the basic premise of the novel is impressive in and of itself, Tregillis handles questions of religion and freedom with ease and grace. He is thought provoking without being distracting from the excitement of the story. Tregillis also creates powerful, yet dissimilar female characters: Bernice and Anastasia are both powerful women without having their femininity stripped away. Bernice, with her mind in the gutter and mouth like sailor, understands and uses sex as a means to an end; she also makes believable mistakes that aren't "punishments" for her sexual behavior. Although Anastasia Bell is harder to read, since we are never granted a 3rd person limited view into her thoughts, she clearly uses her delicate femininity as a kind of intimidating opposition to her job. She looks like a lady: she authorizes acts that devils would find a bit much. Tregillis has joined a unique club among sci-fi/fantasy writers: authors (male and female) that are able to create believable and human characters of both genders. Lets cross our fingers he can keep it up for the sequels.

Crossposted: Children of an Idle Mind, Librarything 

Things I can't make my mind up about, part I

Jane Austen subset:

Sense and Sensibility

Would it have been better if Elinor Dashwood had married Brandon instead of Edward Ferrers? 

Pro:

1. Edward is a muling mother's boy.

2. Even though Brandon has an infatuation with Elinor's little sister, he ends up talking to Elinor about fifty million times more often and in more depth. Marianne reminds him of a first love; Elinor becomes more of a partner and someone to be treated equally. Plus the ages are slightly closer.

3. Elinor would be a better manager of a large estate than her sister.

4. Edward, like Willoughby, could have been "reasonably happy" in his marriage to Lucy Steele. After all, his wife wouldn't always be out of temper and he'd've found some kind of hobby.

5. Brandon needs a sensible hand: he's running around starting duels and giving away valuable livings to people he doesn't know. Elinor would help control those impulses.

Con:

1. Edward needs Elinor to run the parish; plus she's pretty happy with a small income.

2. Elinor would always know that Brandon loves her sister more.

3. Brandon is too Romantic for her: she disapproves of duels, for example

4. Elinor, unlike Marianne, would feel obliged to give her mother houseroom in such a large property and thus she would never get away from all the emotionally overwrought female relations.

5. Marianne wouldn't learn her lesson about firm convictions and imprudent actions.

Books about cults are for boys now too!

Eden West

Pete Hautman

310 pages

Copy: Publisher review copy

Read: April 2015?

Spoilers: not many

Recommend to: Conundrum, really. I think teen boys would like it, but not sure I could convince them to buy it. Adults who like novels about cults, perhaps?

There's a surprising number of books about teenagers dealing with cults. The first I read was The Rapture of Cannan, the intended audience being somewhat of a mystery to me (I read it when I was fifteen and it worked out; reading it as an adult, it feels simply written, and about a teenager, so perhaps it was YA before YA was a thing?). Then there's tell-all memoirs about escaping cults; new semi-dystopias like Vivian Apple at the End of the World and the upcoming The Sacred Lies of Minnow Bly (reviews to come). But the shared glaring similarity: they're always told from the point of view of an oppressed female narrator, the cult standing in for a less subtle and more brutal version of the patriarchy at large. Men, especially the younger ones, tend to be weaker than the women.

Eden West breaks this mold with panache and grace. Set in the depths of Montana, a large and self-sufficient cult controls an equally large tract of land. Reaching their rumored end-times, the cult has begun to follow their religion with greater stringency, while being approached on all sides by potential threats to their mode of life. Hautman balances the warring halves of a young man's soul: the firm believer who wishes to follow his family and his community into never-ending paradise and an intelligent and curious mind provoked into deeper questioning by changes in his community and in his surroundings. While the nagging trope of a manic pixie dream girl variant is one of the catalysts that pushes him forward, Jacob, the narrator, is still a well-rounded character. He makes mistakes, makes poor choices, makes good ones, and suffers under the pull of hormones. Interlaced within the story are moments of true poetic and mystic prose: the encounters with a large wolf are particularly well written. 

It is a novel worth reading, which is why it is a shame that it is not one that can be easily recommended. I believe the adults who might like it would be turned off by the YA label, while the young men who might also enjoy it would be taken-aback by the subject matter. Hautman has written an interesting and mold-breaking novel; it's a pity that it may fail to gain the attention it deserves.

Crossposted: Children of an Idle Mind, Librarything

Vocab Quiz: Statistics version

Someone who shall remain nameless sent me this and promptly ate up hours of my day.

Here are some resulting thoughts:

1. We need to bring back the word pother.
1a. In the days ahead, he often looked back on it, the silly, waste of breath and energy that marked the end of their marriage. A pother, a tizzy, a mortifyingly long and loud fuss--all over the sudden appearance of the wrong colored bobby pin.

2. First time remembering my SAT score came in handy.
2a. I am not entirely sure why I remember my SAT scores with such accuracy after such a long time: I wasn't proud of them at the time and I have never liked people who remember their GPA long after it matters.

3. Terpsichorean tatterdemailion
3a. Dandy dandelions having a ball. For some reason, in my head, it's very Cockney and kinda like the beginning of "My Fair Lady"
3b. People who think that "fluffy reading" isn't worthy of time should go suck it: I learned terpischorean from Elizabeth Peter's mystery adventure series. Incidentally, also the word postprandial.

4. This is a very cleverly written test.
4a. They thought about borrow words and easily guessable words!
4b. They have great graphs.

5. This test, and the blog, begs the question: how to test the vocabulary skills of those who would not be the kind of person that takes online vocabulary tests.
5a. We could all just institute informal lessons/tests by using fun and entertaining words as often as possible, whilst avoiding accidental malaprops and sounding like a jackass.
5b. This may be more difficult than I think it would be.
5c. We can start by teaching Google and Blogger that these long and lovely words aren't misspelt.

Much thanks to the creators of Test Your Vocabulary.

In it for the Short Haul

In the course of taking a lovely vacation, I was forced to utilize the great American airplane system. Like many other systems dependent on oil and a captive clientele, the airlines have famously cut back on the amenities of the past. Gone are the days of free checked bags; of free meals (no matter how disgusting, free is free); the times when someone’s seat back isn’t hitting your face in the middle of the flight.

Now, I’ve been on a lot of planes in my life. I’m blessed with a slight figure, small stature, and disproportionately short legs. Problems that taller or larger people face aren’t actually that big of an issue for me. Yes, paying for a checked bag is painful, but it is better than the overhead compartments.

Short haul flights, however, are a bit much. Okay, maybe it makes better business sense: smaller planes, less fuel burn, less cost in housing pilots and flight attendants three thousand miles from home. It might even be forcing those pilots to stay awake for the flights, since there’s less down time.

But my flight home was changed from having one stop, which would have been reasonable, to having two, which turned out to mean fourteen hours of travel. Airports are draining places; there’s the neon lights, the rush to meet a plane that is on the other side of crowded airport, the inexplicable people who refuse to use the stairs: it’s exhausting. Hitting up four in one day might be torture. If the CIA started sending people on short haul flights, a Senate committee would have to be called up to determine the legality.

Of course, I made it home. I made all those tight connections and I rushed my way through the crowds and the moving walkways because I didn’t have a choice. They changed my flight after I bought it. That was going to be my only way back. I didn’t have a choice about it and that bothers me as much as the actual flights did. Capitalism is supposed to be all about choice between competing companies. The airlines are allowed to change as much as they want, because once someone decides to take a plane, there’s not much we can do about how those trips are going to go. It seems to me that this short haul plane system also is indicative of how the airlines think of their passengers: for the immediate future, we have to put up with them. The long-term customer service plan seems as non-existent as the non-stop flight.

I have a plan. I’d like to invite the major executives of major airlines to take a trip from Honolulu to New York, travelling only on their short haul flight plans, and thus hitting up all the major hubs. I’ll take care of their itinerary. For the majority of their flights, they can have an hour--on paper. With the traditional hold-ups at Atlanta and Chicago, this is more like ten minutes. Then they can have a random eight hour layover. They’ll all have to wear matching neon shirts reading “Family Reunion 2015!!” and all have heavy carry-ons. Maybe it wouldn’t end up changing their policies--airlines generally think with their wallets and not with empathy--but it’d make me feel better.

Crossposted: Readers' Books Facebook

Readers': This is why we can have nice things--Water is a Polar Molecule

In honor of Earth Day, I've been thinking about the drought. Having been away from California for the better part of seven years, coming back to a place where rain in the summertime is impossible was not much of a surprise. It was coming back to little or no rain in the winter that shocked me.

Whether you lean left or right politically, you can't deny that not having enough water in the most populous state is a problem. It doesn't help that California leads the nation in the agricultural profits, a position which requires a great deal of water. This year, we are left without a snow pack and without any solution that we can all agree on.

I don't want to make a big political statement here. I don't want to bewail the drying streams and rivers and not be able to offer a workable solution. What I want to do is remind myself and everyone else of the most basic reasons why we need water.

Now, here I am forced to recall vague memories of high school biology. Very vague memories, with some confusion and distaste, because science wasn't my subject and who cares about molecules anyway? Luckily, I'm related to someone who does care about very small things and their impact on everyday life. My sister has informed me that chemistry is vital to understanding life because, as she said, it is life. And one of the things that makes our world possible is the fact that water is a polar molecule. H2O, means water of course, but it also stands for two hydrogen molecules that sit on top of a big oxygen molecule in such a way so as to look very much like Mickey Mouse.

Maybe this doesn't seem important. And maybe you think that this has nothing to do with the impending California desert; that Mickey Mouse shaped molecules--molecules you can't even see--aren't rocking your boat.

But the reason that boats can rock at all is because water is a polar molecule. Boiled down to my general understanding, it is the angle of those hydrogens sitting atop the oxygen molecule and the corresponding transiency of those bonds that allows water to do such interesting things. Like create surface tension. Like changing form so often within normal ranges of temperature--ice to liquid to gas in a range of 180 degrees Fahrenheit. On a basic molecular level, water is pretty awesome.

Whenever I try to do my part to save water--changing how I hand wash dishes; taking shorter showers; helping my family rethink our front lawn--I like to remember the individual brilliance of the molecules. It's a little thing, but something we can all agree is  important.

Crossposted on Readers' Books Facebook

Really, in the end, what ARE they Seeking?

Seeker
Arwen Elys Dayton
448 pgs
Copy: ARC
Read: Ides of March. Ish.
Spoilers: Lots: it is hard to criticize in loose terms.
Recommend to: People who liked Matched and Divergent

I didn't hate this book. In fact, I found it a decent read: entertaining, if not thought provoking; interesting, if not entrancing. Set in a vaguely futuristic world, with vaguely mystical elements, Seeker features Quin Kincaid as the intrepid, yet suffering heroine. Quin has been raised by her family in an isolated estate in Scotland, trained to become a Seeker. What Seekers seek and why is purposefully shrouded in confusion at the beginning of the novel. Unfortunately, even after her lover John's dismissal from the training program, a grim truth has been revealed to Quin and her (second) cousin Shinobu, "after [which] there is no going back" (back matter). Acting as a watcher and occasional interference for the young people is an unaging figure called Young Dread; named Maud she is plotting the downfall of the abusive Middle Dread and causing mischief while awaiting the return of Old Dread.

The adventure is good, propped up by the well-written and interesting sections featuring Maud. However, the world-building, character-building, and, indeed, set-building, fall down at the slightest hint of a breeze. The story is told in alternating third-person points of view; the world, close to our own, features weapons which open doorways to different places, which are owned by families of Seekers. (A major issue in the novel: it is never made clear what exactly they are supposed to be Seeking)

Let the spoilers begin.

Firstly: Quin. Her character development relies mainly on a forced, wooden kind of passion (portrayed by a repetition of fact, rather than sentiment, without any backing of emotional cues). Upon escaping--barely--from an attack upon the estate (instigated by John, her love-interest) Quin chooses to forget all that she has done and her past. While I am not against amnesia as a plot point, Dayton treats the issue with the same cookie cutter attitude as the evolution of Quin's romances ("I love him!" "I love him, but he attacked my family!" "I kinda remember who he is, even though I have amnesia!" "I love him now that I kinda remember him!" "I love my (second) cousin, I have all along!"). 

This clunky character development extends to John and, to a slightly lesser extent, Shinobu. John spends most of his life thinking a set series of thoughts, all boiling down too: "I'm not doing anything too bad, not if it is for the sake of good." Shinobu is given a few more interesting plot/character developments. I appreciated his drug addiction phase--he actively chooses drug use as means of forgetting (while Quin passively forgets everything in the middle of being mystically healed: a pattern of male vs. female agency that repeats throughout the novel).

The book is redeemed by the aforementioned Young Dread, whose well-written and almost lyrical passages make the other chapters fail in comparison. Maud is patient, clever, complex, and driven; she easily steals the stage from the flighty Quin. One can believe Maud has been trained over centuries to become the killer and victim that she is; picturing Quin with her "whip-sword" (a device which changes into different weapons on command) is almost impossible.

The ending of the novel leaves it open for a sequel (because God forbid we have a stand-alone YA SF story). It is a book that some teens will like, while others will feel cheated by the shallow characters and the bare-bones world-building. Since the movie rights have been sold, and the publisher (Penguin Random House) has spent a great deal of time and money promoting this book, one can only wonder if today's teen readers are nonintellectual and incurious or if writers, publishers, and movie executives merely think they are.

Crossposted: Children of an Idle Mind, Librarything

Readers': Cats and books should not be made into sandwiches, but they go awesome together

Why is it that there are such things as bookstore and library cats? We don’t have a cat at Readers’--for a myriad of reasons, possibly including perpetually open doors, price of cat food, and the increase in vacuuming duties--and instead have the occasional dog biscuit for pets that are so obliging to have brought their people into a bookstore. However, there is something so iconic--in my head, at least--about a cat curled up on a pile of books.

Authors are fascinated by cats. From The Cat in the Hat to Old Possum Book of Cats; from Pete the Cat to Behemoth, cats are intertwined with books. Hemingway had so many that they interbreed and created cats with (very useful and adorable) multiple digits. Some popular names of cats are bookish names--Dewey is a famous library cat; I’ve met a Yossarian; and if I were to be given the honor of naming a female cat, what else could she possibly be but Diana Wynne Jones? (Her nickname could be Winnie)

I already have a very literary cat. My cat is polydactyl, or, as some people call them, a Hemingway cat. Many cats with extra toes merely have a few extra claws, but mine is unusual in that he has opposable thumbs. This allows him to get into all kinds of extra trouble (like dragging his water bowl around the floor, and hooking open closet doors) but has also led to his venerable name: Tennyson.

This is a self-indulgent cat caregiver’s way of saying that cats and books seem to go together. I like dogs a lot, and I think they are also very excellent companions for a reader. Not only are dogs good at cuddling and staying still, but they occasionally take their reader for walks, to, say, the bookstore. If you are lucky enough to have a cuddling cat (I don’t; Tennyson likes to sleep in boxes and grocery bags instead), they provide excellent reading partners. But we have another cat who only likes to cuddle if one doesn’t have a book with one and will attempt to engulf any reading matter with his sizable fluffy mane. So they do not beat out the dogs “sitting still” contest and cats certainly don’t like to join their people on walks around the neighborhood. That is, after all, why we don’t have a box of cat treats.

I am not sure why cats and books are such great partners. Perhaps it is that cats and books have the same kind of transformative abilities. When looking at a new book, or meeting a new cat, there are all kinds of possibilities inside. Will this be a good book? Will this cat be a friendly cat? Will it be easy to read? Will this be a shy cat who runs away as soon as you say hello? And when it is a book you have read and loved before, it is just as it is with your own cat: you may think you understand it and love it, but it will some day surprise you again with some beautiful passage or by developing the propensity to sleep in your laundry baskets. A book, like a cat, will always surprise you. With this in mind, Readers’ doesn’t need a bookstore cat, seeing as we already have books aplenty. You can add your own cat, if you wish (but only at home--we don’t have cat biscuits).


Crossposted: Readers' Books Facebook

List: my favorite mugs for coffee

1. The white one with the funny little wrinkle ridges on the upper half
2. That amazing handless one that I got in Wales that is all kinds of wonderful blues and greens and made it all the way backpacking through the UK
3. The one with the Jane Austen quote my sister gave me for my 20th birthday ("You can not be more than twenty I am sure/so you need not conceal your age)
4. The chipped one with the wide mouth and the penguins that Mom wants to throw away, but that I might have to hide from her because for some unknown reason, I don't like the one that's the same shape but read with funky cats on it
5. The one with the whales on it
6. My 101 Dalmatians mug (this far down on the list because it is usually used for tea at work)
7. The one that's almost the same size as the white one, but a little thicker in the brim and with a vaguely Mediterranean pattern.
8. That one with the zoo animals as Santa's reindeer that we only use at Christmas
9a. (tie) Downtown Keene New Hampshire mug from the 1994 Pumpkin fest
9b. (tie) Those amazingly interesting greenish GLASS mugs that my Aunt Nancy has
10. My mug with the sheep on it.

Readers' Books: The Book is Always Better Than the Movie

The Book is Always Better Than the Movie

I'm playing a game with my friends--who are reading this and hopefully not annoyed with me for spilling this--where we are dream-casting Terry Pratchett's Discworld. There are no rules. Basically, we just have to put what particular era each actor is actually coming from. Thus, we have accidentally set up a love match between Matt Damon and Katherine Hepburn. Then there's the comedy duo made up by the actor--Mark Sheppard--at his current age, and Mark Sheppard from a dozen years ago. Time, in this case, is most definitely relative.

This makes a fun game. But it also drives home how impossible it is to concoct a movie out of a book. There's all the obvious problems: time, length, setting. The infinite range of a reader's imagination is much more complex issue. Maybe an author starts off with a pretty clear image of their character and that character is set down on the page. But when that page is read, that same person can be read as such disparate people as Simon Pegg, Spencer Tracy, or Clive Owen. There isn't a single character on our list that has only one choice; there isn't one casting choice that all of us agree on.

From what we know of Ancient Greek tragedy, most of the violence occurred offstage. (Spoiler: that's why Oedipus stabs out his eyes backstage.) It's not simply because the Greeks knew the limitations of drama without CG; scholars have considered a religious motivation--not wanting to stain the stage with blood. It could also be that they knew that whatever the audience imagined occurring was always going to be better, even if a dedicated Athenian method actor grabbed a spear and blinded himself on stage.

Consider, then, that one's eyes are the stage. We view a movie or tv and we see what it tells us to see. If I talk about BBC's "Sherlock," you know I'm talking about the wonderful duo of Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. But when we read, we build the cast ourselves, taking bits and pieces of people we know and people we've seen, until we have a character that is uniquely ours. If I bring up Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes, your memory is of a very different person than the one that I'm talking about. A character has as many doppelgangers as it has readers.

There are some movies based on books that are great in and of themselves. I personally like the Lord of the Rings better on screen. I've never bothered to read The Godfather, since Marlon Brando has "branded" himself so well into the story it'd be a waste of time. But there's also those movies that made a complete hash of it. "Ella Enchanted" came out in 2004 and I'm still peeved at the gross misinterpretation of one of my beloved childhood novels. "The Borrowers" was completely unacceptable.

It isn't necessarily the book that is better than the movie. There are movies that are just as creative and wonderful and thought-provoking as books. There are books that translate nicely into movies--"Shawshank Redemption", "Pelican Brief". It's the brain, it's the imagination, it's the individual experience of the story that occurs most often when reading. The story we read, the one that we create behind the scenes, is always better than something plopped down in front of us like overcooked spaghetti. As readers, we feast upon the food of our own gleaning: as readers, we are never alone.

Crossposted: Readers' Books Facebook

List: Why I Like Real Weather

1. Easily recognition of the passage of time
1. Oh, look, it rained on Friday and hailed on Tuesday, which was yesterday, so it must be Wednesday
2. Yes, this has been a problem when the weather is the same from Friday to Wednesday
3. Not to mention: it is snowing? it is winter; it is sunny? it is summer. Surprisingly useful information.
2. Clouds are more interesting to look at 
1. Yes, I still look for shapes in clouds
2. Why don't you?
3. Cupping warm beverages when it is cool out
4. Mittens!
5. Parking whilst watching a thunderstorm
1. Much more fun than parking to make out
2. Never really got that point of that one.
3. Also, incidentally, is it actually safe to watch a thunderstorm from inside a car?
4. I mean, it doesn't really matter, since I'd still do it, but for form's sake? 
6. Rebirth of flowers means more
1. Without real seasons, it just means sneezing.
7. Wardrobe changing
1. When confronted with the fact that one can wear one's whole wardrobe all year round, one is also confronted with the full amount of clothing
2. This then causes space issues.
8. More things to write odes on
1. Don't really want to write odes, but it would come in handy.
9. Local news channels are more interesting
10. One doesn't feel guilty when taking a shower
1. I'm so sorry, Gov. Brown and the state of California, but I just really need to shave my legs. 

A "Phantom Tollbooth" for Over-scheduled Modern Girls

The Lost Track of Time
Paige Britt
320 page
Copy: ARC, publication date: 31 March 2015
Read: not sure; probably back in January
Spoilers: A fair bit, including ones for The Phantom Tollbooth
Crossposted: Children of an Idle Mind, Librarything

I adored this book. Scholastic has really hit it out of the park for the 2015 (more on this in later reviews), but this one has the making of a classic. Remember The Phantom Tollbooth? Or, at any rate, hopefully you remember it? (When I finished reading this book, and gushed about it to my best friend, she informed me that she hadn't actually read Tollbooth, and if she were living near me, I would have thrown copies at her. As it was, I just mailed one)

Most of the point of Phantom Tollbooth, aside from the word-play--complete with vocabulary: that's how I learned words like dodecahedron and din and doldrum and a lots of words starting with letters other than d--and the sheer adventure of the story, was that one needs to use one's mind. It was aimed at teaching young readers that boredom is laziness and that intelligence creates the best kind of adventure. It is, in short, truly inspiring.

But in multiple re-readings over time, I came up with a few quibbles. Firstly, the main character Milo is a boy. Now, there is nothing inherently wrong with being a boy. I suppose we need a few of those hanging around, and, frankly, at this point in children's literature, it is actually becoming more and more difficult to find books for intelligent boys who don't like spaceships or Greek gods. However, Tollbooth was published in 1961, and the only female characters are the Princesses of Rhyme and Reason, who have disappeared and are waiting to be rescued up in their Castle in the Air. Although I love the book, we don't need more princesses-in-need-of-rescue and, to be perfectly frank, why the fuck didn't a pair of sisters named Rhyme and Reason rescue themselves? (In more sympathetic moments, I suspect that they were taking a nice vacation and Milo's rescue was something of a nuisance). So: feminism is quibble one.

Quibble two: from what I can see, as neither child nor parent, kids don't seem to have any time to be bored. Sports, and lessons, and enforced hobbies; camps, clubs, classes; the horror that is smart phones: I don't actually think that middle class kids with well meaning parents actually have time to get bored. Getting bored is really important--as long as one doesn't get too bored, of course. Getting bored is what makes one's imagination kick into gear, it's what makes us go on adventures. No one goes on a true adventure because it would look good on a college transcript.

The Lost Track of Time addresses both of these quibbles. To be honest, my beef with Tollbooth was mostly subconscious until I came across this book. Penelope, the intrepid adventurer, suffers under a well-meaning organizational development type mother who runs her daughter's life like Penelope is another event to plan. Their various schedules--during which every fifteen minutes is accounted for--might be humorous to the target audience (8-12), but was verging on tear-jerking for me. To never have any free time! It is bad enough as an adult(ish), but for a child! Heartbreaking and all too much a part of reality.

Penelope, like Milo, escapes her predicament into an allegorical world of word-play and adventure, complete with anthropomorphized puns (my favorite was the Wild Bore), and a mythic figure to be rescued (The Great Moodler, moodling being day-dreaming). Her journey teaches the reader that schedules, just like boredom, can always go overboard.

Recommended for over-scheduled girls (if they can sneak away from their mothers to read it); for grandmothers to give to over-scheduled girls; and for anyone who has been an over-scheduled girl (warning: in that case, there could be tears.)

Readers' Books: Art vs. art

There are a lot of classes I regret not taking in college. Something sciencey might have been useful, for example, and maybe something more about costume design instead of that second class on James Joyce. Right now, I’ve been thinking a lot about why I never took an art course.

Unlike the whole lack-of-science thing, which really only was justified by my distaste for remarkably boring and expensive textbooks, there were legitimate reasons against taking anything on creating art. First of all, there was the fact that you had to take a whole year of drawing before you were allowed to do any other art course. In a school where you can only feasibly take four, maybe five, courses a semester, throwing in this extra bit when you’re trying to gain a double major would be self-sabotage. There was also the uncomfortable feeling of Judgement--of whether whatever one creates is good enough. Most importantly, there’s the fact that while I create beautiful things, most people don’t call it Art. My school wouldn’t even teach pottery--it was much too philistine of an activity.

Some part of me has to admire the double standard of making art history students study ancient pottery as Art while simultaneously denying art students the opportunity to create it, but mostly this brings me back to an internal debate: art vs. Art.

Here’s the actual reason I never took that basic drawing course: I was chicken. I’ve never been naturally good at drawing--knitting, sure; sewing, yes; color theory explored in post-modern collage of empty tea wrappers and magazine ads, certainly--but my drawings tend to look like fun house mirrors done by a hesitant grade-schooler.

Here’s something else: I love to write and I’ve only ever taken one fiction writing class. It was made clear to me, in that course, that the writing I liked to do--fantasy, mostly--was not worthy of my talent or my skill, that I needed to bare my soul and write Literature, that, in short, I was wasting my time. I learned that beginning short stories with either an alarm clock or a commute was completely verboten, and that peer editing is largely useless. Mostly what I gained was three years of writer’s block and the accompanying heartbreak, a feeling like someone had chopped off one of my limbs.

I found this book in the store called Art Before Breakfast*. It is a basic drawing course for the busy, “a zillon ways to be more creative no matter how busy you are”. This is not normally the sort of book I read, but I flipped through it and was immediately both charmed and inspired. David Gregory, the author, marries an encouraging tone with matter-of-fact information, but most importantly, he talks about the difference between art and Art. You’ll have to read it for yourself to find out exactly what he says--I don’t have the space to give it justice--but he lays out that interior debate I’ve had and shines a light into the shadows.

The epiphany Gregory states is one I have been slowly embracing, but have never thought to apply to drawing. It is simply this: who cares if it is Art or art? You’re being creative, you’re doing something different and making yourself happy. Unless you’re planning to sell it at a fancy post-modern gallery, or if you want to bill yourself as the Great American Novelist, do what makes you happy. Do it for yourself, not for the sake of Art.

So here I am, sketching every morning before breakfast. I scribble away for a few minutes, then eat my toast, and feel accomplished for the day. Sometimes the results even resemble my coffee mug, the waywards folds of newspaper, or my plate. I even think I’m getting a bit better, every day, and every day, simple art wins out a little over Art. But before you ask, no, you can’t see my drawings. I still a little too chicken for that.

*Art Before Breakfast, David Gregory, 2015

[Cross-posted: Readers' Books Facebook]