Freakonomics

I've probably already said it, but I'm a sucker for used books. I obviously love reading them, but it's more than that. I like the look of books crammed together on a shelf, and I especially like the thrill of finding, hidden among the discarded mysteries and Harlequin romances, something written by an author whose work I admire. It's like a treasure hunt, but sometimes after sifting through a stack of musty books, I need some kind of payoff and choose a book I've perhaps heard of or that looks interesting. Hence, my discovery of Freakonomics: A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner. It is one of those intriguing books that makes you question everything you thought you knew. There seems to be no coherent reason why the authors chose to focus on the subjects they did, but they do an incredible job linking seemingly unrelated topics together. The topics range from real estate agents and baby names to crack gangs and the correlation between violent crime rates and  Roe v. Wade. I could easily summarize some of the chapters that I found especially fascinating, but I know I wouldn't do it justice. It's an easy, interesting read and quite worthwhile.

The Tale of Despereaux

My five-year-old son has a freakishly long attention span when it comes to books. He can sit and study novels without pictures for over twenty minutes. So this summer when I wanted to read E.B. White's Charlotte's Web, and knew that Isaac wouldn't reread it with me, I figured I'd see how Adam would do. He was entranced. And then after sobbing at the ending, he looked at me and asked that I start over and read it to him again. His crying was not something he was able to get over easily and left him gasping for air and unable to sleep at night. Days later he'd think of Charlotte and weep. Isaac begged me to stop torturing his brother with the book Adam loved so dearly. And so I asked Adam if I could try to read something else to him, a book I'd read to Isaac years ago and loved. We began Kate DiCamillo's The Tale of Despereaux: Being the Story of a Mouse, a Princess, Some Soup, and a Spool of Thread. DiCamillo is a beautiful writer and her prose was hypnotizing to us both. I love this book, the story actually gave me chills. It's a story about this tiny mouse who doesn't really fit into the mouse world who goes on a quest to save a princess. But the story has many layers and there are other characters and everyone is connected in one way or another. I'll admit I had forgotten how it ended and was worried I was reading another tear-jerker. I remembered how another DiCamillo book ended (The Tiger Rising) and knew she didn't always deliver happily ever after. I started to relax as we finished it. No, it wasn't like Charlotte's death at all. No matter. Adam cried big thick tears into my chest. "Honey, why are you crying?" I whispered in his ear.
"Because it's over," he wailed.
Ah yes, I understood. This was a beautiful book and it was over; he was worried that he wouldn't get to read anything this good in a long time.

It Looked Different on the Model

I have a slight addiction to these new Playaways. For those who don't know, a Playaway is an audio book downloaded onto an MP3 kind of player so it's super portable plus unlike audio CD's it keeps your spot for you even if you turn it off and don't listen for days on end. (It was because I'd always lose my place that I gave up on the CD's, so this was a selling point for me.) So with a Playaway I can wash dishes or fold laundry while listening to a book- pretty cool, huh?
I still haven't ventured into listening to fiction on an audio book, so I look for nonfiction selections. A month ago I found It Looked Different on the Model: Epic Tales of Impending Shame and Infamy by Laurie Notaro. It was certainly an enjoyable read and found myself at times laughing out loud. This book is a collection of humorous personal essays. I will say though at times, it felt like the jokes were forced, that Notaro was trying a little too hard to be funny. But I laughed my butt of at this one story, I think it was called "Instant Karma" about the hippies that populate the town where she lives. It was really funny to me, especially because I could have been some of the people she was complaining about. I'm not sure I would have enjoyed this quite as much had I read it instead of listened to it, but it was quite entertaining.

Lord of the Flies

I've always been an enthusiastic reader, yet missed reading a lot of classics growing up. The summer after I graduated from high school I was dismayed by my ignorance of books that (it seemed like) all my peers had read. I took three months trying to catch up with a few books that seemed like “required reading.” But the list was long and I was working two jobs and knew I'd barely skimmed the surface. I'm not sure why I always ended up with English teachers who could care less about English and just took the job to coach basketball or who had done too many drugs and thought watching old movies constituted as “studying literature,” but alas prior to college I had only one teacher who actually had us read a couple books. (The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Red Badge of Courage, and The Scarlet Letter—that's it! Not even Romeo and Juliet—who doesn't read that in high school???) Since then I became an English major and have read my share of classics, but still there are gaps in my knowledge of the canon. So with that history out of the way, I had never read The Lord of the Flies by William Golding, though I had owned it once. When I was around Isaac's age I had bought it through the Scholastic book order since it was only a buck, but didn't really like the cover so never read it. As Isaac and I were looking for another book to read, I figured I'd expose myself and my son to this classic in one drop.

At first, Isaac was into it. The plot drew him in—all these boys stranded on an island—what wasn't to love? But then as I asked if he wanted to read each night, his affirmative answer came more and more grudgingly until one night he confessed he was hating it. “Nothing new ever happens,” he'd complained. “Seriously, every chapter is the same thing.”

Fair enough, I agreed. I don't want to torture him with a book he doesn't like, so we've since begun reading a strange (long!) fantasy novel that I would like nothing more than to abandon. (He's enjoying it though so I'm pressing on...and faking my enthusiasm for it.)

I finished The Lord of the Flies on my own. The chapter Isaac and I had stopped at was when things change and it gets interesting again. Overall, I liked the book. I thought it was well written, though at times confusing. Isaac was annoyed with how it often neglected to note who was speaking. I told him I thought it was because it didn't matter, that there were so many boys and the idea was they almost merged together like a mob, that their individuality was lost. (I have no idea if that's true, but just my interpretation. I'm not interested enough to go read up on the literary criticism.) I think the writing is powerful and the story (though it definitely dragged in the middle) was good. I'm hoping Isaac gives it a chance again when he's older.

Trust

I have been busy the last couple weeks and neglected the blog... the reason for my negligence is that I've been finishing my novel and polishing it for submission. I've also been researching agents and trying to get a feel for what kind of work they represent. I read Kate Veitch's Trust because I'm interested in her agent. I enjoyed Veitch's writing much more than I did the story, though I wouldn't say the storyline is bad exactly. This book is what would be considered “women's fiction” and I was reading it at a time I was grappling with the meaning of that word. I have never heard of “men's fiction” and don't like that men writers get to be “literary” while a woman's writing gets packaged and discredited because of the gender of the author. However, as I read Trust I realized perhaps there is a reason for this separate genre of women's fiction. The cover says it all really—two glossy blond heads with the provoking question—What if your perfect life was based on lies? Because that's what happens in these books, the main character is a likable woman whose life is more or less perfect and then it crumbles apart and she is left to “pick up the pieces” and finds her inner strength. It's a far cry from “chick lit” because the writing is often absolutely phenomenal and the plot line isn't formulaic, nor is it necessarily “girl snags guy.” But yes, it is women's fiction because the cover alone would exempt 99% of all men from even thinking about picking it up. It is often heart-warming, not trashy, and enjoyable to read. I find comfort in these kinds of books and though I found myself annoyed at Veitch several times (at one part the characters are in book club, discussing her own first novel... a new marketing gimmick?), I did finish it and that says something as I'll abandon a book that feels like a waste of my time.