Am I a sellout on Goodreads?

September 14, 2008 in Uncategorized | 3 comments

After hearing me gripe and moan about a particular book (one that shall remain nameless until the end of this blog entry), my husband was outraged to discover that I’d given it four stars on Goodreads.

“I give everything four stars,” I told him, “except for books that really wow me like the Savage Detectives.” (Of course, the Savage Detectives later broke my heart and had me in furies, but I still came back around to it like a co-dependent lover and I gave it five stars because I loved it and railed against it in the way that only grand passion can inspire.)

But he had touched a nerve, and it made me take a long, hard uncomfortable look at the ratings I was handing out. Was I really selling out on Goodreads, throwing stars at books that didn’t deserve them? I went and looked at what other people had to say about the book I’d not exactly liked. Here was one of the harsher reviews: “I’m afraid this book gets one star, a rating which I’ve so far reserved for The DaVinci Code.” Ouch. I’m not sure I’d go down to one star, but I guess I could have been tougher on it. Except that the book had brilliant writing in it, was hugely ambitious, and, in general, was thought-provoking even though in many parts I disagreed with certain choices. I guess, also, I have to admit I admire this writer a lot and don’t want to feel like a jerk one-starring a literary demigod.

All of this reminded me of the time years ago when I reviewed movies and I had given a favorable review to a Japanese movie in which nothing happened except a guy looks at the ocean. (I sincerely hope that my memory is off and this is not the one where he looks at the ocean and is also deaf and rarely talks, but, alas, IMDB research reveals it to be so.) There was more to it – he looked at the ocean *and* had a surfboard, but in any event it was not exactly the compelling drama I had implied it to be. Two friends of mine were so incensed they came to my apartment directly from the theater, ready for some film critic smackdown. (Gary and Cate if you ever read this, I know I was wrong, I still feel your pain, and, in my defense, this film was a Takeshi Kitano anomaly.)

Okay, if I could do it all over again, I would give that movie about the possibly deaf-mute ocean-gazing Japanese guy one star. Maybe I should post nothing to Goodreads but stinkers so that I can slash and burn like the second coming of Dale Peck. Then again, maybe I’m right about the four stars. Jonathan Lethem, you write an awesome sentence, you’re smart. Hats off to you, man.

The Fortress of Solitude The Fortress of Solitude by Jonathan Lethem


My review


rating: 4 of 5 stars
Flat-out ambitious in a way that reminded me strongly of “The Corrections,” language sometimes mind-blowing but sometimes so stylized it got in the way of my connection, and a great (great) relationship at its core between these two kids Dylan and Mingus. Still, for all that, I feel a slight reservation, a coolness, so that I cannot give it a total rave. Possibly I got more fascinated by a secondary drama – centered around the idea of Jonathan Lethem writing this book and making certain choices and wondering why he did some things and awed that he had the guts to do others.

But here’s a great line (one of thousands) that made me think of my friend Chris. This is upon hearing Rick James’s “Super Freak” at the first party of the year at Camden College (a thinly veiled Bennington) after Dylan’s escape from Brooklyn:

“That easy appropriation of dance-floor funk was a first taste, for me, of something I desperately wanted to understand: the suburban obliviousness of these white children to the intricate boundaries of race and music which were my inheritance and obsession. Nobody here cared – it was only a danceable song.”

View all my reviews.

The decongestant disaster (or, the story of my reunion)

July 22, 2008 in Uncategorized | 1 comment

For some reason I decided that my first solo trip since becoming a mom would be to my college reunion. After nearly seven years of traveling with small fussy children, this was my big prize. Maybe I was not exactly dreaming big, but I was looking forward to it.

I’d been planning the trip for a while, and, thrillingly, it involved an overnight stay in a hotel room (by myself!) in fabulous Newark, NJ, where I would then be met by my friend Colette. We would drive up to Smith together on scenic turnpikes and reminisce and it would all be lovely.

But less than a week before I was supposed to go, I got knocked out and slammed around by a sinus infection so merciless that night after night I was lying in bed in fitful sleep, with a stash of clean T-shirts and towels on the floor next to me because I would sweat through my clothes and wake up shivering in a tangle of clammy sheets.

I did herbal remedies, saltwater rinses, and visualization exercises. Greenish, yellowish bloodied goop still poured out of my nose at a flow rate of about ten ounces per hour. And I didn’t think I’d be able to fly, especially when the emergency on-call doctor I talked to prescribed antibiotics and told me, “You’re not going anywhere.”

My regular doctor was more sanguine. He sent me home with a sackful of pharmaceutical samples and told me, “We’ll get you on that plane,” with a cheery shoulder pat. His regime involved squirting up with about three different nasal sprays and using a decongestant.

But the thing is, I never take medicine. My system is totally unused to the stuff. The decongestant alone made me so spacy that I drove to the airport, arrived more than two hours ahead of time, and still managed to miss my flight. I was, um, browsing in the airport shops. So there I was, hopped up on Sudafed and weeping into my cellphone at the San Francisco airport as I proceeded to call Grant and then my parents and in short make a thorough spectacle of myself.

It all worked out – as you can see from the picture below. I made it to my reunion and got the 80s sampler CD and the tote bag. I got to have a wonderful time with my friend Colette and all the other people who were somehow exactly as I remembered them – either that or simply more themselves now that they are older. And I did get to march in the “white parade,” which is the Ivy Day thing, and which I didn’t do back when I graduated because I was too cool for school (or maybe because I didn’t own anything white back then – can’t remember). Now I have a white outfit I’m ready to break out at a moment’s notice. And I have a neti pot for nasal irrigation. Hurray, reunion!

Heather and Colette at the Ivy Day parade

Why we need a gnome

May 14, 2008 in Uncategorized | 2 comments


Gnome

Originally uploaded by mattfoster

I have been going crazy trying to keep order around the house, and finally I had an idea. We’d get a gnome.

This brainstorm came out of a parenting class I went to so that I’d be more sweetness and light around the kids. A woman there said she had great success getting her son to eat vegetables when she told him that their gnome cooked them. (Why did they have a pretend gnome in the first place? I wasn’t totally clear, but I think it had something to do with a Norwegian background.)

This could work! I thought. We eat plenty of vegetables, but struggle not to be slobs. I needed a pretend gnome of my own to send cute gnomey notes to the kids about tidying up.

So, I told my kids, hey, I was on the Berkeley Parents Network, and I saw a message from a family saying they were moving and needed to find a new home for their gnome. His name is Nils, he’s an older gentleman gnome, and he’s looking for a house with children, do you think you’d be interested?

They were over the moon. Yes! They cried and immediately began to argue about where he would sleep. I burst in with a few caveats. We’d have to keep the living room clean, I said. Nils will take care of us, but he gets cranky if toys and things are scattered all over. I painted a rather grim picture of what life would be like with a cranky gnome running loose in the house. They thought about this and believed they were up to the challenge of placating a small gnome.

Okay, I said. If you really think you’d like to have him, I’ll write him a letter.

Then I went out and did not write the letter. I got another cold, and I started writing some new stuff, and we started swimming lessons twice a week, and it seemed like a lot of work to bring Nils to life, even though I still wanted to.

My husband was deep into writing descriptions for my son’s silent auction school fundraiser, and he was also picking up some extra freelance work in his off hours. So I couldn’t exactly sit on the couch and when he asked what I was up to say, I’m really busy writing a letter from Nils the gnome.

Still, I kept thinking about Nils. I imagined him as fairly old-school, yet with a streak of mischief. He could be our Mary Poppins! He could transform me into a genial, somewhat absentminded mother who planned adventures and left day-to-day details to the gnome. Nils could scold about the dirty socks on the floor, while I flitted about going “yes, darling?” to the kids.

Maybe the gnome could remind you to water the lawn, my husband said.

I really don’t think that’s an appropriate use for Nils, I told my husband. The living room and the dirty sock situation alone were already a lot to put on his plate. Reluctantly, I concluded there were just too many possibilities for gnome abuse in our household.

The kids still mention him every once in a while. We were reading Harry Potter Chamber of Secrets, and when Dobby shows up in Harry’s bedroom to warn him not to go back to Hogwarts, I tried to explain about house elves. My son lit up. He’s like the gnome! he exclaimed.

Yep. We’ll have one just like him someday.

Just looking for a nice, friendly werewolf site

January 17, 2008 in deer, the sacrifices I make for my dog, werewolves | No comments

Because my book has werewolves in it, I thought that I might do some web research. But it was scary out there… There were fangy drawings and artwork that was very dark and murky and full-moony. Very atmospheric, and, not to take anything away from it, not so much what I’m interested in. And, of course, there were communities and discussion boards where people took things very seriously indeed. I think the web site that I’m looking for is quite normal, pleasant, and possibly just a tiny bit eccentric. Going a couple pages in, you might forget how much time has passed because you’re so charmed. And then – a flicker – did you really just read that? You saw a passage of text that absolutely chilled you. But wait, it’s gone. Will you go back? Will you bookmark it? Do you dare? That is the werewolf web site I still haven’t found.

So I have been thinking about werewolves. They were part of the story from the beginning, so in many ways I haven’t really thought too hard about them. It was like, protagonist – check. Antagonist – check. Werewolves – check. And I’ve just read Shannon Hale’s Book of a Thousand Days (which was great and I should write something about that) and that had – well, not to give too much away – it had something.

Anyway, I might like werewolves because I think it’s very reasonable to be frightened of animals. Animals – even though I live with a very sweet one – can do things that are sudden and instinctual and seeing that in action can be startling. Werner Herzog’s Grizzly Man is astounding and heartrending in this regard (and the plot keywords, on IMDB are really tops: Plane, Obsession, Man Eaten). Also, my dog, when I once tried to take a pork chop from her, gave me quite a lesson on this topic.

This time of year we have deer in the yard all the time, and they are big. They’re also quite jaded. I’ll come in from working in the office and they can barely bestir themselves to get up and go through the motions of, like, oh no, a human. Seriously, I feel like they’re doing it for my benefit sometimes. I am disappointed – in fact – when they look at me with their big eyes, pink tongues hanging out of their mouths, and basically give me a big, fat, “so what?” Then I feel powerless in my yard. Of course, I’m already powerless in my yard – the trees need pruning, we have mud-encrusted toys mining every square foot of the thing. To step into the yard is to see a testament to the powerlessness of the adults who live here. But then to get it from deer!

Although, really, aren’t deer just a teensy bit frightening? They are, for instance, almost the size of cows – small, stilt-legged cows, maybe. When they get up on their legs and they get skittish they do feel like wild animals, and they could run me down, I think. And that’s when I worry about my dog with deer, because my dog is so elderly and so self-righteous, I could see her barking at these creatures and then getting run down and basically chopped up by their hard tiny hooves. I love deer, goes without saying, but I do love my dog and I don’t want deer hooves all over her arthritic back, so on sunny days like we’re having now when I know my dog wants to nap outside and the deer are also napping outside and chewing the ivy, then I’ll go out with a spoon or something and rattle it along the deck railing and yell, “Deer! Deer!” like a fool until finally they find me enough of an annoyance to stiffly get up and then somehow effortlessly hop the fence.

Maybe that is why I’m writing about werewolves. So deer will finally show me some respect.

Juno

January 7, 2008 in envy, movies, unexpected maturity on my part, vampires | No comments

I saw it a week ago, but I am still experiencing “Juno” afterglow. I’d been prepared for letdown and overhype, but really it’s exactly as advertised: witty, wisecracking, sweet – this year’s “Little Miss Sunshine.” Now we are listening to the soundtrack constantly, and I am humming that “I am a Vampire” song that sounds like a fourteen-year-old and her friends are singing it in her bedroom.

And I’ve gotten over my brief spate of envy/fascination with the screenwriter Diablo Cody. She did write a great script. It was nice to go to the movie and feel like, hats off, Diablo! Because I simply hate feeling envious of anyone.

So, not at all envious, I have been reading now about Stephenie Meyer because I am just about to start “Eclipse” and for the procrasintation-inclined there are interviews with her everywhere. (“Eclipse”? Stephenie Meyer – surely these references to the gazillion-selling author of the “Twilight” series do not need to be explained.) And, if I were to be envious, the reasons would be that she has three kids, managed to write three great big satisfying books that are somehow not tired vampire re-treads, and seemed to do it without breaking a sweat. And, as I’m trying to finish revising “The Wolves and the Wood,” the sweat, unfortunately, is pouring off me in gallons. In rivers. If I updated my photo it would show me in, like, head-to-toe sweatbands. And that would be very gross, so I won’t.

El Ocho

January 3, 2008 in resolutions | No comments

Here it is 2008 – el ocho – as my brother is referring to it – and I realize I haven’t blogged for a while. I’ve been working. Working working working. Working on the revision of “Wolves” and occasionally and probably ill-advisedly working on “Albertine” aka “My Old Ghost” aka “Everybody Hates Proust.” (And, as I crack myself up over crap titles, I do want to remember I’m resolving to finish it this year.)

“Wolves” is shaping up, thankfully, and I’m hoping to hand that off soon. Very soon. Then I’d like to write more about Lucy Darrington, my “Wolves” character. But we shall see.

So I may submerge again. But I’m going to try a little harder on the blogging front. I think my mom deserves more frequent postings in 2008, and I think I’ll go out on a limb and even try to include photos now and then.

Aerating

August 8, 2007 in composting, writing | 1 comment

The problem I have with composting right now is that it’s not enough simply to put in the vegetables that have gone bad in the refrigerator, or to be dutiful about collecting the remains on the cutting board – like the broccoli stalks that I really should eat but toss because I always have what feels like an abundance of broccoli around and I’m just disgustingly profligate with it, or to scoop up the melon rinds that suddenly are everywhere once the kids feel like devouring half a watermelon. No, the problem is you can be conscientious – even saintly – about making the trip out to the compost bin and depositing all this stuff. But that’s only half the battle. You then have to aerate it. You have to deal with all that half rotten slimy stuff and mix it around. This is the step I avoid, and it’s why I’ll probably never be a really first-rate composter.

But I’m thinking about aeration issues and why you really do need to get in and mix things up every now and then because I am – of course – rewriting. And it’s night. And I’m not going to eat chocolate (which is how I got to the point of having written something that needs to be rewritten in the first place; sometimes people ask how I did it with kids, job, etc. etc. and the answer really is good dark chocolate.) When I’m stuck like this – going through the Word file for the umpteenth time, knowing the thing by heart – I end up doing tweaks. It gets down to word choice and punctuation. Useless. So tonight I’m going to move chunks around. I know I’ve needed to do it and I’ve been tweaking instead. But this seems exactly like the kind of pitchfork job I could do on a somewhat brain dead night like this. That is, not think about the language or anything tweakable, but just get stuff moved around and in place. Then I’ll have done the kind of manual labor, like aerating, that always makes me forget everything else while I’m doing it, and I’ll feel very virtuous afterward. Hopefully…

Making friends with plot

August 7, 2007 in writing | No comments

Earlier this summer I took a plot workshop with Martha Alderson that was really useful. It had shown up in a SCBWI announcement email, and it seemed like something that could help out as I tried to figure out some children’s book stuff (since I love my character Lucy, I’m trying to see how I can stretch her into more books). But it turned out to pack all kinds of revelations about other projects I was working on, too. And it really was the key in moving forward on my other novel. Suddenly I understood whole new universes of information about Manzanita, the hapless wannabe academic I’m writing about. And it became totally clear how I needed to reshape the second half of her story.

Now, I hate to write from an outline. And I absolutely hate to look at the page count and from there consider which plot point I’m headed toward. To me that makes writing feel like screenwriter hell – and it gives me bad flashbacks of a time when I tied myself in knots after too much time spent with Robert McKee’s Story and one particularly recalcitrant manuscript. But the strange truth is that stepping back and looking at plot at the right time in the process has totally changed things for me.

Pleasure Writing?

August 2, 2007 in writing | 1 comment

Right now I’m struggling with something in my “grown up” novel that just really seems silly from the perspective of a children’s writer, and that is, how much fun should this thing be to read? Should my character find romance, should the guy who seems like an obvious love interest actually be the love interest?! should there be an ending that wraps things up, how much should I balance the fun of reading with the seriousness of my Big Idea?

A previous draft ended with my dear protagonist bleeding to death, alone, in the back of a rental truck used for transporting illegal drugs and realizing that her brother has betrayed her. New ending? Dear protagonist is embraced in the bosom of her family, a wedding has everyone put aside their differences and realize how much they love each other, the love interest beckons.

I guess it’s the enduring influence of my grad school writing program that still gives me these night terrors about writing something that’s actually fun to write – and to read.

The art and poetry of compost

May 6, 2007 in composting | No comments

I think the reason that composting appeals to me so much as metaphor is that it’s essentially a process of taking odds and ends, bits of leftover junk, letting it sit, stirring it occasionally, and then producing something nutritive and great. Or at least that’s the idea.

So many of my writing projects stretch on for years, with all kinds of flotsam accumulating over time. Essentially the way I write depends on an organic and fairly lengthy time to dump stuff in, let it break down, mix it up, and then see what takes root.

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