And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks by William S. Borroughs and Jack Kerouac

Burroughs and Keroauc? Written in 1945? Sign me up. And then let me down. It should be said that I have never been a big fan of On the Road; it didn't inspire me.

I was expecting to be awed by the exploration these two put forth of New York City and the early culture they experienced at the dawn of the Beats...alas, this was choppy and mundane. "We went here. We did this. Then we walked over here and did some of that." Seriously? Apparently these burgeoning kings of culture literally walked from bar to bar, drank a lot of beer on other peoples' dimes and then staggered from apartment to apartment. All this while being disenchanted with their company and not being impressed by their closest friends.

My biggest disappointment came from the expectations set from the back cover. Touted as a murder mystery (based on real events witnessed by WLB and JK) that questions bigger issues, I found neither very riveting. Especially since the questions posed were so vague they didn't even elicit a second thought, let alone deeper ones. Bah.

My one compliment does speak to the writing. The chapters alternate voices, and the two characters were fully formed with distinct characteristics that also blended seamlessly with one another, flowing from one to the other.

Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell

If you know Sarah Vowell, then you know why I picked this up when I saw it at the thrift store. If you don't, then I'll explain a bit: Vowell is a NPR contributor that is obsessed with historical pop cultural. For this book, she travels all across America exploring virtually every spot associated with the assassinations of three American Presidents. Take away the superlative aspect of this book, and the history is not something that I would normally be drawn to read. I thought Sarah would ease me into the uncomfortable endeavor I'm starting-attempting to read outside of my basic genres.

From the preface: "The egomania required to be president or a presidential assassin makes the two types brothers of sorts. Presidents and presidential assassins are like Las Vegas and Salt Lake City that way. Even though one city is all about sin and the other is all about salvation, they are identical one-dimensional company towns built up out of the desert by the sheer will of true believers." Basically, Vowell's humor and enchantment with the mundane takes her (and the reader) on enough tangents to make 258 pages of history palatable for me.

The assassinations she investigates are those of LIncoln, Garfield and McKinley. Lest you think it's an in-and-out visit to the murder sites, be warned that she travels to the Mutter Museum simply to view a piece of John Wilkes Booth's flesh that has been kept for posterity (along with a piece of LBJ's gallbladder and a cancerous growth from the cheek of Grover Cleveland). She's nuts. But her fascination is fascinating.

And Still I Rise by Maya Angelou

Like Williams and Eliot earlier this season, I'm cheating by going to Angelou. Or rather, I'm cheating you by posting a "review" here. Maya Angelou doesn't pop up early on my list of favorites, or sometimes even at all. Which is ridiculous, as I was reminded one night as I grabbed this from the living room.

Whether swallowed whole and digested in one sitting or taken in slowly and ruminated upon for days, this volume has a profound effect on me. Angelou's words point out who I once was, who I am now....and how those two people have grown together and apart over the years. These words quickly revive the brazen fire of my youth, applaud the confidence of my character and encourage the quiet strength that I've let lie dormant for too long.

The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen

With the buzz about Freedom and nothing but good things being said, I really wanted to pick it up right away. Alas, my book club will probably be reading it soon....and I've had The Corrections in my possession for nearly 9 years, so I thought I'd start there.

First of all, this book is extremely readable, and Franzen is a gifted writer. However, none of his characters are very likeable. I was originally intrigued by the introduction of Alfred and Enid, then drawn in by their younger son Chip. It quickly turned. It's a real tale of a real American family, but perhaps therein lies the problem. A bit too real? When I turn to reading to escape, maybe I want to read about circumstances more removed from my own.

(I'm abandoning this post, for I haven't been able to write anything for nearly 2 months. However, if you've read it, engage in conversation....I actually have lots to say.)

The Blue Star by Tony Earley

The Blue Star returns to the life of Jim Glass, who is now an 18-year-old figuring out life and love during a time of war. The school has electricity, girls are a force to be reckoned with, and his friends have enlisted.

Women are also a big issue for Jim now. He's recently ended a relationship with a girl who had anticipated marriage (as did Jim's mother), and now has a massive crush on a new girl. Who just happens to be in an arranged set-up with one of his recently deployed friends. On top of navigating that, Jim has discovered things about his father, and finally goes to meet his ailing grandfather in the hills.

Life is tough, but still relatively simple. Filled with imagery, the world, the land and the town all become characters as well. These characters are fully drawn and fully satisfying.

Guided by the strong hands and wise advice of his Uncles Coran, Al and Zeno, the boy grows into a man. Gracefully and fearlessly written, Earley easily conveys how once can learn about the poetry of heartbreak.

Jim the Boy by Tony Earley

When I worked for B & N in Chicago, there was a book rep that visited our store often. It was quickly discovered that we had similar tastes in books, and just as quickly random advance copies and galleys would show up (mailed to my house!). Jim the Boy was found as a result. I read it in 2000, loved it, and put a name for a potential child on the list as a result of one of the characters.

When at the Tattered Cover a few months ago, I found the sequel. Being that I rarely remember plot, I reread this in order to catch myself up.

Jim Glass is a 10-year-old growing up in the 1930s, with a widowed mother and 3 uncles as his caretakers. They live on a farm in North Carolina. It's a beautifully written simplistic story about family and discovery. I was glad to return to this simple time of discovery with Jim the Boy.

27 Wagons Full of Cotton by Tennessee Williams

As I continued to to ween myself from the book-a-day plan, I turned to another old favorite...Tennessee Williams. I spent an afternoon by the wood stove at St. Mark's reading a few one-acts. Much like Eggers and Eliot, trying to wrap up the feelings that envelope me as I read Williams is a near impossibility-so brief sketches of plot will have to do here.

"Something Unspoken" Wealthy southern spinster and her help-very typical Williams.

"Hello from Bertha" A delirious call girl in the red-light district of East St. Louis and her co-workers have an interesting evening.

"The Strangest Kind of Romance" The interactions of a lonely landlady and the transient factory-working borders. And a Russian cat.

"Talk to Me Like the Rain And Let Me Listen..." Agh. The beauty of this title is painful. The words exchanged between this waking couple during the early daylight hours are just as georgeously excruciating. Foreign intimacy at it's best. Argh.

Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot

The Four Quartets were actually published separately initially, all during the 1940s as Eliot was spending time in England. Facing both the air raids of World War II and declining health, Eliot addressed matters of time and man's universal search for a place within it.

I've long reached to Eliot's plays for comfort, but never really his poems. I find that it's difficult to analyze poetry when I'm simply reading to read. I prefer to let the words and rhythm speak to me in the moment. Especially when contemplating such big issues, as we all bring our own pictures of redemption to a text.

Eliot has a voice that speaks what it believes and what it questions quite directly. My appreciation comes in that his voice also allows for the reader to have their own.

Diary of a Wimpy Kid: The Ugly Truth by Jeff Kinney

I'll liken the Wimpy Kid series to James Patterson or Danielle Steel-fantastic way to get someone to read, not something I'd fully recommend to a reader. However, the one major difference is that Greg Heffley experiences things that your average 5th grader does.

These stories are believable. They're also catchy. I read the first three in this series over Thanksgiving break of 2009. Last year I was just as excited to go on the field trip to see the movie as were the 10 year olds that I accompanied. Even the boys that typically "hated" to read were fighting over who got custody of the classroom copies next, and I have terrific memories of seeing James and Giovanni clamor over one another in order to talk to me about these books.

There are, of course, valid arguments on either side of my major criticism of the language. While Greg lives the life of an average kid, he also talks like one. His first person narration using grossly incorrect grammar (the likes of "Me and Rowley went to gym class.") bothered me to the utmost throughout. It drives me to the brink thinking that legions of students will read this and it will reinforce their already atrocious speech. Gack.

Regardless, this is a fun quick read....and I'll continue to read the series.

The Body Artist by Don DeLillo

DeLillo is an author I have been meaning to read for years. When I started this "read-a-book-a-day-for-a-week" thing, I knew that at 126 pages, The Body Artist was definitely on the list. The only questions I have now are, Why did I wait so long? and, Where to go next?

This is a simple and haunting book. The language is phenomenal...the setting, the sparse dialogue and the complex nature of the plot mix to create perfect alchemy.

Lauren Hartke is an artist testing and defining the limits of the human body. As she mourns the loss of her husband Rey, an ephemeral character enters her life in a quite unusual way. Lauren's interactions and reactions with both of these men are woven through the story in ways both transcendental and concrete. The questions this book lead me to ponder are abstruse, muddy, enigmatic and delicious.

The Boy in the Striped Pajamas by John Boyne

This is a slow-building book. Much like the slow building of the friendship at the center of this story. Bruno is 9 years old, lives in Berlin, and has no idea what his father does for a living that garners so much respect and talk of importance. Soon the "Fury" comes to dinner, and the reader quickly figures out that Hitler is the man informing this family that they're moving to a post they call "Out-With," which is a desolate concentration camp, where Bruno's father will be the supreme officer.

Bruno, having no clue about the world outside of his 5-story home, is simply upset that he must leave his friends. His frustrations become even larger when he has only 3 stories in the new house and no neighbors, no friends, no school to attend. He looks out his new bedroom window and wonders about the fence, and the people who shuffle about inside the fence wearing striped pajamas and matching caps.

Eventually Bruno tires of the lack of adventure to be found inside the house, and disobeys his parents strict orders (With No Exceptions) to go exploring. He walks along the length of the fence, coming upon a boy his age sitting, staring out. This boy, Shmuel, becomes his only friend. They talk of their lives prior to Out-With, finding that they were quite similar in their other worlds. Shmuel never fully explains to Bruno what Out-With is, or what his father does on the inside of the fence. Bruno eventually finds out when he dares to crawl under the fence to visit Shmuel's world.

Knowing this was a book about the Holocaust, I kept waiting to be shocked by the ending. I guess you can't be shocked when you're anticipating it.

The Nimrod Flip Out by Etgar Keret

One look at this cover and you know that this is an odd collection. These stories are incredibly short, mostly hovering between 3 and 6 (the longest at 16) pages.

Quirky, obsessed with sex, and never really establishing any kind of connection-I love them. While most short stories seem to nail down the essence of the characters, these rarely do. But not to the point of distraction.

For me, it might be the highest compliment that I can't verbalize why I find these stories so moving. Art should be visceral, both in the creating and in the reception.

Jumping the Scratch by Sarah Weeks

I'd read Sarah Weeks' first novel, So B. It, in not only one day, but in one sitting. It is a magical book that I wish I could've read as a child. So when, not knowing that it existed, I came upon Jumping the Scratch on the second day of my read-a-book-each-day-for-a-week experiment, I easily bumped DeLillo back a day.

Jamie (not James) is a 5th grader who has come upon some bad luck. His cat ran died, his dad took off, and he has to move to Michigan. His Aunt Sapphy, involved in a freak accident at a cherry factory, can't care for herself any longer, so Jamie and his mom move to Traverse City to help her out.

Once at his new school, Jamie is an outcast. Even his teacher can't seem to find anything redeeming in Jamie, so he retreats even further from anyone who reaches out to him. There is obviously something deeper that's traumatized Jamie, and he refers to it only as the incident, and of his fear being tied to the taste of butterscotch.

Two brief encounters turn into pivotal connections for Jamie. One is with the weird girl from his class, Audrey, who is also his neighbor. The other is with an author who visits his classroom. These characters are believable, and their appearances rather brief, but their impact is felt by both the protagonist and the reader.

While I wasn't over the moon about this book, I can see how it will be helpful in dealing with broader issues for young adults. Divorce, trauma, abuse, and bullying are all dealt with deftly and with the disposition of a 10-year-old-boy. Any story that can assist students deal with life is significant enough to be told.

The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by Kate DiCamillo

This book was pulled from the stack I've acquired as a result of the recommendation of students. A favorite for read-aloud and one that makes teachers cry, I had high hopes.

Edward is a china rabbit. He is haughty and unfeeling. His only reaction to the human world is to Pellegrina, his owner's grandmother, who has few kind words and stares with beady black eyes. Pellegrina also believes that no story has a happy ending. This causes Edward to contemplate happiness and love. Being that he is a china rabbit, whose only experience is with an adoring girl as an owner, his thoughts are limited.

When Edward joins his family on a cruise, he finds himself thrown overboard by some pranksters. Edward's journey starts here, and takes him into the hands various owners-a hobo, a sickly girl, a lonely elderly couple. All through his travels, Edward learns that you actually can feel, can love...even if your "heart" doesn't physically exist.

Given the reviews I've received by countless students, I was expecting to be enamored by this book. I wasn't. However, I can allow that DiCamillo has a gift with language and for weaving a tale that mesmerizes youngsters.

The Help by Katherine Stockett

Kathryn Stockett's book has been on our book club list since May (these ladies don't mess around-we schedule a year out), and then went up as the latest One Book, One Denver selection. It's been everywhere. I haven't heard one negative thing about it. Per the ushe, I procrastinated until the week before our meeting to start it. Then I was sick and didn't read a single word for 4 days. Which means that Saturday last, I read all 450 pages of this bad boy. I wasn't bored, I barely took breaks....and I finished it...inside of 24 hours.

The next day I got the bright idea to read a book a day for an entire week (standby for posts on all titles)-obviously cheating with much shorter books.

The Help focuses on the relationships between white folks and their black maids. The book takes place in Jackson, Mississippi, in the early 1960s, and uses 3 separate and alternating voices throughout. These voices belong to Skeeter, Aibileen and Minny. Skeeter Phelan is a recent college graduate who was raised in privilege (including a beloved maid, Constantine, who has disappeared in some sort of scandal to which which Skeeter isn't privy), Aibileen Clark is maid to Skeeter's childhood friend, and Minny Jackson is the mouthy maid who has worked for too many homes to count.

In the midst of integration and the Civil Rights movement, these 3 ladies are moved to make an impact on the community of Jackson, which is hesitant (at best) to receive any change. Finding a publishing house in New York City interested in helping her progress, Skeeter begins to interview black maids under the cover of night in hopes of a book.

Nine black students attend a previously all-white school in Little Rock, four black students in North Carolina sit at a segregated lunch counter at a Woolworth's-these things are spoken of in Jackson and dismissed as foolishness. Skeeter's friends play cards and continue building separate bathrooms for their "help". Then James Meredith enrolls at the University of Mississippi and Medgar Evers is killed on the streets of Jackson-these things aren't so easily dismissed. These incidents also make the prospect of publishing a book about the harsh climate seem like an impossibility.

The supporting characters of this story are fully fleshed out and boost the flavor of this well-written piece of fiction, and the fact that these scenes are painted with historical episodes. I can't say that I'm a huge fan of how each of the storylines tie up so neatly, but it was worth the read. (Can I mention here that I can't wait to see Lee Daniels' Selma?)

Little Bee by Chris Cleave

From the back cover, "We don't want to tell you WHAT HAPPENS in this book. It is a truly SPECIAL STORY and we don't want to spoil it....Once you have read it, you'll want to tell your friends about it. When you do, please don't tell them what happens. The magic is in how the story unfolds."

While I don't completely agree wholeheartedly with the entirety of the above, I will honor it. This damn book is quotable. I scribbled in the margins. A LOT. Brackets, arrows, hash marks, sweeping lines. Obviously much of what strikes a chord with the reader is directly proportionate to what they already think about life, or the circumstances of their own, but most of this is universally appealing and applicable. One quote was sent with flowers to a friends' mother, another on a postcard to a friend.

The language of this book made me think about things simple and profound, in ways both simple and profound. It made me stop. It made me process things like the wind. It made me believe that I was, that I could be, the wind. The author's ability, as a male, to believably speak from a female first person perspective, is impressive. Perhaps only the third male author to ever convince me.

"Do these scars cover the whole of you? I thought that would be pretty, and I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers what us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived.

In a few breaths' time I will speak some sad words to you. But you must hear them the same way we have agreed to see scars now. Sad words are just another beauty. A sad story means, this storyteller is alive. The next thing you know, something fine will happen to her, something marvelous, and then she will turn around and smile."

"Tea is the taste of my land: it is bitter and warm, strong, and sharp with memory. It tastes of longing. It tastes of the distance between where you are and where you come from. Also it vanishes--the taste of it vanishes from your tongue while your lips are still hot from the cup."

"I did not want to hurt her any more. I did not want to tell her what happened, but I had to now. I could not stop talking because now I had started my story, it wanted to be finished. We cannot choose where to start and stop. Our stories are the tellers of us."

"Handing out in-flight meals in a plane crash. We escaped our own tragedies and into each other. Nothing serious. Nothing sentimental. Just a merciful interruption. A brief, blinking cursor before our old stories resumed.

But it was gorgeous. I gave myself completely. It happened easily, without any effort. It just happened; it wasn't an act. I felt agonies of tenderness. ...To really become myself, I had to go the whole way and fall. Again, I didn't have to make an effort. All I had to do was to permit myself to topple. This is quite safe, I told myself: the psyche is made to absorb the shock of such falls."

"Happiness isn't something one can pick up off the shelf, it's something one has to work at."

"Trust between adults is a hard-won thing, a fragile thing, so difficult to rebuild."

"We knew what we had: we had nothing. In our village our only Bible had all of its pages missing after the forty-sixth verse of the twenty-seventh chapter of Matthew, so that the end of our religion, as far as any of us knew, was My God, my god, why hast thou forsaken me? We understood that this was the end of the story.

That is how we lived, happily and without hope. I was very young then, and I did not miss having a future because I did not know that I was entitled to one."

Although Of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself by David Lipsky

I took this book with me everywhere. It started in Denver, late night and cross legged on my front porch. Together we found our way to a park bench, where the love affair rose to the next level. Then we travelled through Nebraska and Iowa, ending up in Galesburg, Illinois. It was here that I truly began to take my time, knowing that as soon as it ended, I would want to travel back to the beginning. As lame as it may sound to any other, I've taken this book with me everywhere since.

David Foster Wallace. How you've captured me. This book is simply a transcript of an elongated interview that DFW did with David Lipsky for a Rolling Stone article in 1996. After Wallace's death in 2008, Lipsky released this book. I'm forever grateful. (How obnoxious do I sound?)

It's one thing to have a conversation with a friend or fellow reader about popular culture, about the profound effects that "art" has on us all, but another to be allowed the pleasure of the voyeuristic experience of eavesdropping on 2 separate great minds having those same discussions. Multiple times throughout this book, I found myself feeling validated. When a genius like Wallace expresses a view that you've long held, he does it better. He encapsulates it with a sagacious conclusiveness.

Much like a fawning schoolgirl, I drank this in all the more so as I remember the stuff they're talking about. These interviews took place when I was a 20 year-old flailing college student, so whether pontificating on the merits of Updike or regaling Alanis Morissette for her accessibility, I'm smitten. Then and now.

Traveler by Ron McLarty

Whenever I truly want to enjoy a book, I take a few hours at Stella's. For roughly the last 7 years, I have found refuge in a specific corner there. This corner allows for the perfect blend of white noise from other patrons and the solitude that a book provides. There is a glorious high-backed wicker chair with a worn out velvety golden colored corduroy covered cushion. (Not unlike the glorious orange corduroy pants I'm wearing tonight.) They took the chair away, but I still frequent the haus.

All of that to say, this was a book that I took to Stella's. The couches were all taken, so I read in a hard-backed chair at a table, then sat outside on the patio by the fire. Any which way, this book merited some solid time. Not that it was a hard read, but that I found myself so engaged that I wanted to retreat with it. McLarty's first book, The Memory of Running, was the same way. He's not a phenomenal writer, just a true one. His words and characters stick with you, strike you as authentic and allow just enough of themselves to make you feel a part of them.

This book takes place partially in New York City, where the main character lives, and in Rhode Island, where Jono Riley grew up. (It should be noted that any book set in the Northeast has an unfair advantage, as I'm smitten by the idea of the area.) The book opens with Jono receiving a letter that one of his childhood friends has passed away. Having not returned to his hometown in some years, the story unfolds through alternating chapters of present and past.

With the backdrop of 1950s New England, there are stereotypes and prejudices addressed as we travel through a coincidentally familiar and foreign America. Names like Cubby, Big Tony, Mary Agnes and Bobby quickly quickly demonstrate that at this time, whether you were Italian or Irish, Catholic or not, it made a difference in Riverside Terrace.

McLarty uses elements of mystery to weave a story that reminds us that we're all still tied to our upbringing, regardless of how far down we try to repress those experiences or how far away we travel.

Labor Day by Joyce Maynard

I had no idea who Joyce Maynard was until the winter of 1999, when I read At Home in the World, her memoir. That book garnered much attention in a negative way-Maynard revealed a very personal story (her own experience, mind you) involving JD Salinger. The two shared a relationship, which profoundly affected her (as a writer and a woman), when she was 18. Salinger, notoriously reclusive, instigated the relationship, and it was far from idyllic. Once Maynard revealed portions of his life, she was very publicly castrated from the literary world's good graces. In doing so, I fell in love with her.

This is only the second piece of Maynard's fiction that I've read, and I will definitely be looking for more.

Henry is a 13 year old boy, living in the tension of a split family. His relationship with his mother is close, bordering on inappropriate. He senses this, but has no vocabulary for describing his mother's emotional frailty. Here we find him coming to terms with this, as well as his distanced relationship with his father and new step-family.

Over Labor Day weekend-six short days -we see Henry discover pieces of what he's been missing. A stranger approaches during a rare shopping trip and asks for Henry's help. This stranger is Frank. Frank enters Henry's home and shows him a new idea of family, of being there for one another, of normalcy. In the most abnormal way.

I loved every awkward moment that Henry experiences through learning what every child should-love is love, regardless of how it appears to the outsider.

When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead

Miranda is an adolescent girl living and attending public school in New York City. Her best friend, Sal, lives in her building, and it seems as if neither of them has travelled far from what they know. There's the crazy homeless man that sleeps under the mailbox on the corner, the sandwich shop that they "work" in during their lunch break, and the gang of ruffians that terrorize passersby in front of the garage...all within a 3 block radius of their apartments. Without seeming to try too hard, Stead creates a world that I could easily visualize as a film.

Weird things start happening. Miranda receives eery handwritten notes that reference events that haven't occurred...yet. When they start to realize, Miranda attempts to figure out the mystery. With catchy chapter titles that always begin with, "Things That...," one of the boys from the garage presents himself more frequently into Miranda's everyday life. Our girl's favorite book, A Wrinkle in Time, plays part and parcel to some clues as to what's going on with the notes. Perhaps it's my disdain for physics, or the reminiscence of past conversations with Gabe, Steve, and Todd that never produced exceptional fruit or clarity about the nature of time and its' continuum, but I didn't give much thought to the larger message.

Either way, I was entertained for an afternoon whilst floating in the pool in GBG.

The Blue Parakeet by Scot McKnight

Lest I be my snarky self when it comes to "Christian" writings, I'm pasting the Publishers' Weekly review from Amazon here:

"Infused with common sense and seasoned with candor, the latest work from McKnight (The Jesus Creed), religious studies professor at North Park College, takes a stand in controversial territory by bravely asking the question: how is it that even Christians who claim to be led by an authoritative Bible read it so differently? In response, the author asserts that believers need to take a fresh look at how they adopt and adapt Scripture before they can read the Bible in a way that renews a living relationship with the God behind the sacred text. Using the analogy of a water slide, McKnight argues that the Gospel is the slide, the Bible and church tradition the walls that both protect and liberate the believer as he or she discerns how to apply Scripture as a living document. In the last section, McKnight tackles the controversial issue of women's role in church ministry in a way that is both scholarly and confessional, documenting his own journey alongside that of the apostle Paul and other biblical characters. Enriched by folksy anecdotes, this volume could be very useful for evangelical readers and any others wanting a safe place to ask the same bold questions."

Given my love of discussion, this was an experiment in pushing myself to read things that I've not as of late. A group of 5 embarked upon a book club of sorts for this one, and we read it over the course of 4 months. The group included 2 of my closest friends, one newer acquaintance, and one of my roommates at the time. It should be mentioned that 4 of us had at one time or another been on staff or volunteered for the same youth program at a church that we were all still at least loosely affiliated. Always for adding another layer to relationships and thinking, I was excited to enter into this endeavor.

This situation allowed for many questions to be entertained, and many long held assumptions to be challenged. There were many moments of discord, and Scot-with-one-t held his own while withholding his blunt opinions to the point of never really knowing what he was urging you to think. While that sounds gracious enough, it was hard to walk away with anything more than a swirl of unanswered questions. However, it did open up the ground for analyzing things with a fresh perspective.

Short Stories...by Raymond Carver, Dorothy Parker, David Foster Wallace, John Updike

There are a few short story collections sprinkling my book collection, but I very rarely commit myself to reading them. They are generally filler, picked up between books and before bedtime when I'm in need of a distraction or my senses need to be dulled towards sleep.

Raymond Carver, however, is an exception. Carver has the ability to captivate me. His ability to turn everyday life into a grandiose experience calls to grab a cup of hot tea and settle in. Which is what I did, multiple nights in a row.

That led to turning to other old favorites...perhaps stories shall be turning up on my list more frequently.

Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout

What to say about Olive? Here we have a character who isn't very likable, nor sympathetic, but I found myself identifying with her, liking her, and having a great deal of empathy for her. Her life, her situations, her surroundings.

Strout tells the tale of Olive Kitteridge using vignettes, each chapter sketches a story that, while building part of a larger whole, can stand alone. While I doubted it's effectiveness (and was quite irritated) when I realized that Chapter Two wasn't necessarily connected to the first, I quickly became engaged with each portion of the book. To the point of being riveted. I journaled about this book. I read it aloud to both of my roommates (two separate passages at two separate times), and we had heartfelt and meaningful discussions as a result.

Olive and the people who populate the town of Crosby, Maine live very mundane and commonplace small-town lives. It's just that that makes their experience, and this book, remarkable.

Bright Shiny Morning by James Frey

I unabashedly love James Frey. Regardless of the is-memoir-is-it-fiction argument (which I'm not addressing here), this guy can write. I received Million Little Pieces as a galley when I lived in Chicago, and had already read (and cried over) My Friend Leonard when the "scandal" about Frey's veracity broke in late 2005. My glowing opinion of his aptitude as a writer was mostly fully formed when the bru-ha-ha exploded. It has not changed (and has only been strengthened) with the reading of his most recent offering, Bright Shiny Morning.

Started while housesitting over Spring Break, then put away....I knew that at 501 pages, I didn't have the capacity at the time to fully absorb and appreciate it.

The tongue-in-cheek prefaces, "Nothing in this book should be considered accurate or reliable."Fairly warned, I jumped in to discover that Frey introduces some 20-odd characters within the first 35 pages. Alternating storylines of these people with short paragraphs on the history of the city of Los Angeles, I delighted in the characteristic non-traditional prose. I've never desired to live in LA, but this book made me cognizant of the culture and revisit some preconceived ideas about the diversity of the place. Even the seemingly dry landscape became palatable at the hands of this talented scribe.

Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie

I have never liked Sherman Alexie's writing. Until I read this book, that is. This one was for my book club, won the National Book Award, and is perhaps my favorite read of the entire summer (uummm, maybe i said that already about another YA book? tough call, folks.).

Arnold Spirit is a middle school aged boy. He lives on the res, loves his grandma & sister, is confined by the poverty that surrounds him, questions his parents' choices, and plays most sports poorly. According to his first person narration, Arnold also has a stutter, bottle-cap glasses, a limp, a misshapen head, and his stature might qualify him as a midget. There is a self-portrait included. You see, Arnold draws. Ridiculously accurate, hysterical and poignant sketches. These are his lifeline, and at points, also the readers'.

This is a book about grace, escape, and the inevitable return home. I found myself reading passages aloud to anyone who happened to be nearby. There were so many things that resonated with me, I know that I'll return to more fully examine this heartbreakingly honest tale.

(If you're interested in the artist who rendered Arnold's drawings, check out Ellen Forney.)

Handle with Care by Jodi Picoult

It would be realistic to say that I'm loathe to "review" a Jodi Picoult book. I feel like a broken record. Since I was first introduced to her in 1998, she's been what I've considered my only true guilty pleasure when it comes to reading. Handle With Care marks the 16th Picoult book I've read, so I knew what to expect when I picked it up.

It would be harsh to say that she's formulaic, but she is....alternating voices of narration, New England setting, moral dilemma, "shocking" turn of events, and an emotional reaction to the conduct and/or integrity of at least one character....while the jig may be up on Picoult's writing style and plot, it is still somewhat addictive. She is virtually the only author that I will, guaranteed, always pay full price for when a new book hits the shelves. She has her craft and her niche down, and I'm a sucker for 2 days of care-free "pleasure" reading.

All of that said, this was typical of her work, but this time I put my finger on something that I struggle with, due to the market to which she panders. While the main theme of the book might be explored to a deeper degree, there are multiple ideas and conflicts that are merely presented, then dropped. There is a passage of no more than 20 lines of dialogue that I read aloud to 4 separate people, simply posing the question, "What do you think about that?," and I received 4 totally different answers. The topics my friends chose to address ranged from abortion to marriage; from divorce to predestination. All of those things were brought up in the conversation the characters were having, but not one was ever fully inspected.

While I admire her ability to write about such weighty issues, I'm bothered by the fact that I don't ever know where she stands on any of them. However, I still plan on reading House Rules.

Things Left Unsaid by Stephanie Hemphill

When I finished this book, I was sitting on the steps at a park. After closing the book, I simply sat. I feared getting up, scared that my motion would somehow cement the fact that it was over.

Sarah snuck up on me, and I wasn't prepared for her character to mark me with such an impact. Drawn into the starkness of her story, I was wrapped up in this 16 year-olds' story for one reason...

This is the story of Sarah.

The story of a "normal" 16-year-old girl.

A story of change.

A story of acceptance.

A story of struggle.

A story of friendship.

An everyman story, if you will.

It sounds so trite. The story is ordinary, really. It couldn't be more cliche, actually-these complexities mired in simplicity. Or is it the other way around? Are our pedestrian everyday interactions so easy that we forget how profound they can be?

This book didn't grab me from the outset, but it crept up on me in the quickest of ways. Seemingly an angsty young adult book (told in verse, which adds to the effect), I stopped dead at page 47, as I realized the obvious. This story is much bigger than that of a high school girl navigating the pitfalls and victories of figuring out one's self.

Frighteningly familiar, these exchanges are seen with an unfortunate regularity- along with those moments of relief veiled in effrontery. Weather it's my 4th grade students in the hallways, the senior girls I mentor confessing over lunch, or my own friends casually assaulting one another in a joking manner, females are given (and give in) to this tension.

This book made me both think critically and feel intensely. That's all I hope for when I pick up a book. Given that it was my first official read of the "summer," it set the bar high, and still may qualify as my favorite of the season.

The Girl with the Dragon Tatoo by Stieg Larsson

Let's be honest: I don't usually read thrillers. There are really only 2 reasons that I ever do: Michelle Hall recommends it, or it's lying around one of my families' houses and I need to be completely escapist, not thinking about anything (even the book i'm reading). It is rare that I admire an author who writes purely mystery. Much like musical theatre, it's an art form that I can appreciate, but I certainly don't admire. Purely entertainment. (Maggie, if you're reading this: YES, I know how pompous that sounds.)

Essentially, this book didn't stand a chance from the beginning. Skeptical would be an understatement. It was "highly regarded" and received mainstream media attention. I was perplexed by the fact that NPR reviewed it favorably. That didn't sit with my initial judgements. I bought it, it sat for a long time. Then an old Chicago friend prompted that "it's worth it" and that the first 200 pages are the backstory that you need to get to the meat of the series. [INSERT RANT HERE. oh, okay...i will actually insert it. dag blain if i shouldn't have trusted my gut on this. since when can i justify reading for more than 15 minutes if it's inane blather? poorly written at that. geezalou does that get my goat. if the second book is so spectacular, then why isn't the first? and do i really have to read it? anger.]

I will admit that there was a point when I was hooked. Excited, even, to read the last 150 pages into the wee hours of the morning. That lasted for approximately 20 pages. Then it turned to shite again. Upon finishing it, I was not satisfied and my opinion has not changed. Mostly I want to make fun of the ridiculous translation and the notion that, apparently, if your novel is published posthumously you don't get an editor. At least not one worth a paycheck.

"What she had realised was that love was that moment when your heart was about to burst." -p 584 (That's so deep and well spoken, it makes The DaVinci Code seem intimate.)

A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf

There aren't really words for me to express the admiration I have for Virginia Woolf. This, being the book the cemented her place in my esteem, was read in the winter of 1999. I'll let a few underlined passages from my beloved copy be their own review here:

"I need not hate any man; he cannot hurt me. I need not flatter any man; he has nothing to give me."

"Indeed, if woman had no existence save in the fiction written by men, one would imagine her a person of the utmost importance; very various; heroic and mean; splendid and sordid; infinitely beautiful and hideous in the extreme; as great as man, some think even greater. But this is woman in fiction."

"A very queer, composite being thus emerges. Imaginatively she is of the highest importance; practically she is completely insignificant. She pervades poetry from cover to cover; she is all but absent from history."

"Some of the most inspired words, some of the most profound thoughts in literature fall from her lips; in real life she could hardly read, could scarcely spell, and was the property of her husband."

"and.....the five dots here indicate five separate minutes of stupefaction, wonder and bewilderment."

"Give her a room of her own and five hundred a year, let her speak her mind...She will be a poet."

HOW WE ARE HUNGRY By Dave Eggers

The thumbnails that I could find online for HOW WE ARE HUNGRY do no justice to the aesthetic of this book. The physicality is representative of my experience as a whole with it-and Eggers in general. Every time I touch it, every time I look at it, each time that I attempt to negotiate these stories I react differently. Sensory overload, in the best of all possible ways.

Similar to poetry, short stories haven't been a medium that I've long identified with; however, when done well and in my language, I relish in all of their offerings. I won't try to classify or summarize Eggers' writing. Simply said: If you haven't, you should.

love is a mix tape by Rob Sheffield

No capitalization on the cover or the title page? Man after my heart. Cassette tapes as the cover illustration? Stop it. A memoir of an editor for Rolling Stone? Seriously....check, check, and check.

When I first stumbled upon this book, I was hesitant to even pick it up. My elitist and pessimistic self almost couldn't stand it. I purchased it before going to Wisconsin in the spring of 2008, and waited until I had fully settled in to start it. Almost 6 weeks later, wearing my headlamp after my campers had gone to sleep, I devoured this thing huddled in my mummy bag on the top bunk.

Filled with everything from anecdotes about cheeseball Top 40 to poignant passages on the connections between love, loss and lyrics, I can say with a bit of confidence that any true Hornby fan will delight in these pages as much as I did. With chapter titles like "tape 635", "sheena was a man", "dancing with myself" and "mmmrob", how could I not? I honestly found myself picturing Jim Knipfel with each arch and turn in the story. (um, hello...now I've got to do a review of Slackjaw.) AND there are mixes on printed cassette sleeves at the beginning of every chapter....c'mon now, you know you're intrigued.


As I've recently been reveling in the glory of all that is early 90s grunge, I'll leave you with a smattering of Sheffield's musings on Nirvana and their illustrious frontman (sparing you my vivid recollections of that fateful April day).

"Nobody was surprised, so nobody was depressed. People cracked jokes, even those of us who loved him. ...Renee and our friend Gina sang 'Kurt Cobain' to the tune of 'You're So Vain.' For people who were into music, which meant almost everybody hanging around all weekend, the Kurt Cobain who kicked it was the celebrity, as opposed to the guy who had written all the songs and sung them-the musician. The celebrity was dead. The guy who sang on the Unplugged special was a little harder to bury.
...The Unplugged music bothered me a lot. Contrary to what people said at the time, he didn't sound dead, or about to die, or anything like that. As far as I could tell, his voice was not just alive but raging to stay that way. And he sounded married. Married and buried, just like he says. People liked to claim that his songs were all about the pressures of fame, but I guess they just weren't used to eharing rock stars sing love songs anymore, not even love songs as blatant as 'All Apologies' or 'Heart-Shaped Box.' And he sings, all through Unplugged about the kind of love you can't leave until you die. The more he sang about this, the more his voice upset me. He made me think about death and marriage and a lot of things that I didn't want to think about at all. I would have been glad to push this music to the back of my brain, put some furniture in front of it so I couldn't see it, and wait thirty or forty years for it to rot so it wouldn't be there to scare me anymore. The married guy was a lot more disturbing to me than the dead junkie.
...when I listen to Kurt, he's not ready to die, at least not in his music-the boy on Unplugged doesn't sound the same as the man who gave up on him. A boy is what he sounds like, turning his private pain into teenage news. He comes clean as a Bowie fan, up to his neck in Catholic guilt, a Major Tom trying to put his Low and his Pin Ups on the same album, by mixing up his favorite oldies with his own folk-mass confessionals. I hear a scruffy sloppy guitar boy trying to sing his life. I hear a teenage Jesus superstar on the radio with a song about a sunbeam, a song about a girl, flushed with the romance of punk rock. I hear the noise in his voice, I hear a boy trying to scare the darkness away. I wish I could hear what happened next, but nothing did."

The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery

This book had long been on my list after word of mouth (or should I say word of blog/facebook) from several people who actually have taste in literature. So I suggested it for my book club. Twice. The second time it was finally added to our rotation. I preface with that simply to indicate exactly how long I had wanted to read this book.

I finally sat down to read it at the beginning of February (yes, it's currently August) and stopped reading at page 36. Why? Here you have one of the protagonists, Renee, who is a bitter concierge, resigned to her "post" in life regardless of (or perhaps in spite of) her extreme intelligence. She was dealt a bad hand and then let that hand chafe her raw. Early in the book the reader sees her depression, which appears to be cyclical with her resentment of society and the structures imposed upon her by it. Which all just hit a bit too close to home for this reader. A woman not fulfilling her potential in life? Gack. So I put it down for what I had intended to be a week(ish), or until my headspace could handle seeing the (extended foreign version of) my own failures in print. Then my grandfather died and that week(ish) turned into a few months. I'm not exactly sure when I finished the book, but there are show bills from late April tucked into page 275.

Needless to say, I can understand why the aforementioned folks reveled in this book. At points I did as well, but the majority of my reading felt like an assignment. It was the kind of book I love to love, but in actuality I didn't even consistently like the book. There are brilliant passages that resonated with me and my experiences, but there were also some that struck a heavy hand of discord. I've spent my last 3 years working in a Title I school during the mornings and then nannying for a family who sends their kids to the poshest private day schools around in the afternoon. My everyday experiences with kids are as varied as their ages (4-18).

The second protagonist here, Paloma, is a 12-year old girl. Paloma is a savant, to be sure, but she still isn't convincing as an adolescent. That was a distraction for me. It wasn't until a noticeable shift in her narration (well into the later third of the book) that I figured out why I was struggling with the text. Being translated from the French, I did enjoy the phrasing, which led to my own near-constant thought about grammar, spelling, and punctuation....but I'm a megadork when it comes to that.

Although I'm not glowing about this one, I'd still recommend it to any true reader. It sounds as if I'm selling it short, which will be contradictory when I post umpteen passages from it....elitist and hypocritical. Yup, that's me.

Harvest Poems 1910-1960 by Carl Sandburg

(Just under the wire to close out National Poetry Month)

Let's be honest. I've spent the majority of my life not "getting" poetry, and therefore not loving poetry. If we're examining that honesty, I most likely wasn't taught poetry well or widely enough. Realizing that poetry is actually a giant love of mine, and always has been in non-traditional forms (when was poetry ever traditional, anyways? geez.a.lou.), has only fully sunk in recently. All that to say...for the first 20-odd years I was a poser when it came to Sandburg. Growing up in the shadow of this man's legacy, I thought I was familiar with him. Although his profile and Alfalfaesque haircut where prevalent and recognizable, his work (beyond "Fog" or references to the "City of Big Shoulders") was not.

Tucked in between the copyright and contents pages of this paragon is a faded receipt dated 04-15-04. It's not quite dog-eared, but close. The title on the cover is partially encircled by a coffee stain. Over the years, I've read it with mixed thoughts and responses. As of late, I've actually perused it for digestion. Guess what? "I lock it a lot." I'll include some stanzas that resonate below, but do yourself a favor and educate yourself first. Check this out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Sandburg


Every time I journey to the 61401, I walk the 3 blocks down the street and past the Hi-Lo grocery (holler.) to Remembrance Rock and Sandburg's birthplace. If I'm lucky, the museum is open and I can go read my handsdown favorite: the original typewritten version of his unpublished "Definitions of Poetry", which you can read a bit about here: http://www.litkicks.com/PoetryIs/

"It is something to face the sun and know you are free.
To hold your head in the shafts of daylight slanting the earth
And know your heart has kept a promise and the blood runs clean:
It is something." -Clean Hands

"Freedom is a habit
and a coat worn
some born to wear it
some never to know it."

"Maybe he believes me, maybe not.
Maybe I can marry him, maybe not.

Maybe the wind on the prairie,
The wind on the sea, maybe,
Somebody, somewhere, maybe can tell.

I will lay my head on his shoulder
And when he asks me I will say yes,
Maybe."


"Be a brother, if so can be,
to those beyond battle fatigue
each in his own corner of earth...
each with a personal dream and doorway
and over them now the long endless winds
with the low healing song of time,
the hush and sleep murmur of time.

Make your wit a guard and cover.
Sing low, sing high, sing wide.
Let your laughter come free
remembering looking toward peace:
'We must disenthrall ourselves.'

Be sad, be kind, be cool.
Weep if you must
And open and shameless
before these altars."
-The Long Shadow of Lincoln: A Litany

"I am the grass. Let me work." -Grass

*Apologies for the links not being embedded. Blogger apparently doesn't want them to, and the formatting buttons are gone. Grrr. HTML is not my friend.

Gertrude Stein Gertrude Stein Gertrude Stein by Marty Martin

{I posted this and the previous 2 titles with cover photos having every ambition of entering texts soon after. Well, the road to good intention doesn't lead to anywhere. Here we are weeks to months later....I stressed myself out with the stack of books I wanted to read over spring break. In typical Jill fashion, I simply gave up. I honestly haven't finished an actual book since the last week of March (I believe). The interim has found me battling ear infections, stressed out "to the MAX!" and barely able to concentrate beyond the length of a moderately sized interweb article. I've bounced between books while finishing nothing.

I went to my trusty heirloom bookshelf and picked out some old standbys. Those have been my nightly reading, and so the next few forthcoming posts will essentially be a quote extravaganza largely excepting examination.}

Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Tolkas have fascinated me, from afar, for years. I got this mass market edition of the semi-biographical play years ago and finally read it. Combining my loves of scripts with stream of consciousness, this one hooked me immediately...and sent me running to Black & Read to find anything Stein wrote. Expect a review of Three Lives soon.

The lives that intertwined at 27 rue de Fleurus included the Fitzgeralds, Dali, Isadora Duncan, Cezanne, and Gertrude's brother Leo (of whom I am equally enamored)--en route to THE discovery of both Matisse and Picasso. Fascinating stuff. Reading this play I can smell the tea being served; the ingenuity filling the parlor is as palpable as the flair of those first paintings.

"They were a little worried the publishers about my punctuation which they did not consider satisfactory and they sent a courier to Paris to discuss with me the matter of proofreading. But it is proofread I said What about the question marks he said there are no question marks. I said question marks are out of the question. Anybody with any sense knows a question when he sees one and does not need any little marks to tie his shoes for him. Well surely you will want to put in a few more commas he said he kept looking at me and then quickly looking at Alice and then back at me again. I said it is true she is watching you very closely and after he left Alice counted the silverware she was not fond of publishers no."

"Sometimes at the sittings Picasso would discuss his ideas especially those concerned with cubism. You start with an object he would say and then you strip away all the traces of reality from it. There is nothing to fear because the idea will continue to be present and it is the idea not the object that is important. He was talking about painting of course but his ideas were pertinent to my thoughts on literature at the time Well while he was in Spain I finished the book I was writing but it was written in pencil and it was difficult to read and unfortunately typing is one of the things that makes me nervous ... Picasso said and I agreed that at the time ugliness and the confrontation of ugliness in art was beginning to unsettle people's pictures of life just a bit when it began to break and give way to the explosion that was and is the twentieth century. Always before ugliness was an effrontery to traditional esthetics but once those traditions were thrown into question ... A violin is just a thing but if you play it it becomes a feeling and if you paint it it becomes a feeling too it ceases to be a thing then a painting is never the thing that it is a painting of it is a feeling about that thing and so a painting of a violin without a violin in it can still be a painting of a violin and even a good one it is true nonetheless ... I was not interested in the principles of art ... A child with a piece of chalk and a blackboard is a potential Sistine Chapel in a way now that is not nonsense."

Granny Torrelli Makes Soup by Sharon Creech

"It doesn't...and it does."

Love That Dog (and) Hate That Cat by Sharon Creech

Free verse. Story poems. Whatever you call them, they're good. I first read Love That Dog years ago, and have used some of it in my 5th grade groups. Guud stuff. I just read Hate That Cat. More of the same.

The story of a boy named Jack, learning about poetry, hating poetry, frustrated by poetry, discovering poetry and the poet inside himself. Inspired by Walter Dean Myers, stuck on Tennyson and getting William Carlos Williams, Jack writes a beautiful story. It doesn't hurt that I, too, love those dogs and hate those cats. (And references to T.S. Eliot, to boot....what's not to savor?)




"I liked when you said
we could try
turning the metaphors
upside down or inside out
and I liked when you used
my chair poem as an example
so
instead of saying
the chair is like a pleasingly plump momma
we could try
my momma is like a pleasingly plump chair

except that now
everyone thinks
my mother is very plump
and looks like a chair"

Marshfield Dreams: When I Was a Kid by Ralph Fletcher

This book is a nugget. Started and finished inside of 24 hours, I found this book in my mailbox at school. A Post-It on the cover read, "Hi Jill-Here is that book I was telling you about. {smiley face} Amy". Amy is the instructional coach at my school, which essentially means she helps teachers be better teachers and students be better learners. I've watched her single handedly do both for the last 3 years. She is phenomenal at her job. A majority of our conversations revolve around books, be it for students or for ourselves, and I respect her opinion immensely.

Marshfield Dreams is about Ralph Fletcher's first 13 years of life. This gem of a book includes little snippets of growing up as the oldest of nine in Massachusetts. As I grew up with some 40-odd cousins that I saw on the regular, this resonated with me. Ralph, his siblings and his friends ran and played on Acorn Street and through Ale's Woods just as we did on Maple Avenue and at Silas Willard. It was magical, however briefly, to travel with Fletcher to this place of childhood freedom.

Eating by Jason Epstein

Let's be honest: I didn't love this book. It's a memoir, which I do love. Jason Epstein was the editorial director at Random House for 40 years. He was responsible for the publication of authors like Nabokov, Doctorow, Mailer, Philip Roth and Gore Vidal. Fantastic. Except here he barely talks about any of that. Jason Epstein loves to cook, loves to eat, and loves the memories associated with certain foods. Awesome. Except here half the book is storytelling, the other half is recipes. The basic premise of the book is that Epstein believes in cooking as storytelling. So the recipes are told as if spoken to a friend, with no exact measurements. For someone who doesn't cook often or experiment much beyond what has worked before, this is not stimulating. I found myself throughout the book thinking of people in my life who would love this book.

There were a few bright spots. The early chapters that correspond with Epstein's childhood and young adult years in the Mid-Atlantic do evoke a sense of whimsy. I also wrote a few worthy quotes in my journal, which I'll share below. I don't discount this book, I only discount it for an untalented and uninspired (un)chef like myself.

"Without books you would not know who you are or where you came from or where you might be going."

"Perhaps my New York neighborhood with its multitudinous temptations is at fault. But I chose to live here. There is no escaping one's self."

Haunted House and Other Short Stories by Virginia Woolf

Guess what? I love Virginia Woolf. Shocker. If you've known me much longer than 2 weeks or ever asked for some sort of "top 5", you already know this. I love Virginia Woolf so much that she shows up on not only my book list, but also plays, movies, and music. Ferreals. Her name has come up twice in conversation recently, so I went to the shelf and revisited my old friend. Here's the deal: I don't generally like short stories. And I'm more apt to be drawn to Woolf's journals or nonfiction (go read Room of One's Own. NOW.) than her fiction. However, in this collection the prose is tilted slightly toward her typical stream of consciousness style, so it still seemed as if she was talking to me. Just to be clear: I LOVE CRAZY LADIES. Her writing is at times so effortless it has the cadence of poetry. Mmm mmm mmmh.

"Flaunted, leaf-light, drifting at corners, blown across the wheels, silver-splashed, home or not home, gathered, scattered, squandered in separate scales, swept up, down, torn, sunk, assembled-and truth?"

The Atonement Child by Francine Rivers

I have a refrigerator magnet that reads, "I don't mean to be an elitist; I just am."...please take that as a warning. There are very few authors who write romance, religious fiction (or "religious" anything, for that matter), or anything that could be counted as self-helpy or "inspirational" that I read. I tend to get on a soapbox or a high horse, if you will, when it comes to any o' that business. While I'm working on being a gentle, quiet-spirited sentimental type gal, it just isn't the core of who I am or how I express myself.

That being said, this book was alright. (I hope you're laughing.) A conversation with a roommate a few months ago led to this book ending up on my nightstand. (She didn't thrust it upon me or put it there, I took it.) I really liked the first 75 pages. Then came another character....and another storyline....and another character....which ended up with a whole lotta predictability. The characters' prayers being included in italics throughout the story also drove me nutballs.

This is essentially a morality tale about abortion. It made me think, resulted in a few conversations, one of which was a commiserating about how much we didn't like this book in comparison with some of Rivers' others. Since I tend to be cynical and belittling, I'll stop. I finished the book, which is an indicator that it wasn't horrible.