Musings of a Mad Hen

Reviews (or Yapping Just to Hear Myself Yap)

2008-08-13T12:56:00.005-05:00

Eddie Vedder at the Opera House: And this is my last post about the man. Geez, I’m even boring myself.

I’ve seen a few one-man shows – Christopher Plummer as Barrymore, Patti Smith, Henry Rollins… Granted, none of these are mainstream rock stars, and the first was more a play, but these folks are not without their share of fame, and the audiences were smart enough to respect each other and the performers by realizing they were witnessing something unique.

This is what I expected when I went to see Eddie Vedder on August 1. My expectations fell short. Choice of material? Brilliant. His performance was stellar. How could it not be? So this is a review of the audience, rather than a music critique.

I think that ninety-five percent of the audience was there in search of that unique experience but it was the remainig 5% that marred the evening for me, and I think I can say that they annoyed Mr. Vedder as well. From my perch on the balcony’s edge, I could see him bristling at the mindless screams and cringing at the “We love you, Eddie!” chants. And the demands for Pearl Jam songs yelled every time the poor man tried to speak! (Hello, people, you didn’t come to see Pearl Jam.)

He tried courtesy; then succumbed to blatant rebukes, insulting Red Sox Nation by negatively comparing that clique to New York. Yet, these fans were too dull to get the hint. And so, Mr. Vedder shut down – he gave a great performance but one sensed that it was only a shadow of what he’d intended. I left feeling frustrated and unsatisfied, as if the night wept with unfilled potential. A bit flowery, I know, but true.

So I when the opportunity arose to grab a second row seat for August 2, I went again. This time, Mr. Vedder was prepared and immediately warned the audience to behave, as a parent must address a toddler before taking him into a fancy restaurant. It didn’t work completely, but the night was closer to what I had expected, an intimate event filled with songs and campfire confessions. If only the jocks had stayed home to get drunk while playing air guitar to a Pearl Jam CD, the night would have been perfect.

The funny thing is, this small group of brain-dead louts were once the kids that bullied the long hair skater freaks in high school (ahem, the Eddie Vedder types). Now, he is their hero. I doubt they even get the irony. But the saddest thing is, if they could return to high school, knowing what they know now, they’d still go beat up those skater kids. They don’t learn. All they know is a belligerent sort of worship in their desire to live through the live of another, be it Tom Brady or Eddie Vedder.

Then again, I’m no better. That they say their prayers too loud, better to hear themselves than to hear the voice of the one they idolize, is really no different than my listening, silent, with straining ears for some kernel of wisdom. It sort of taught me a lesson about spirituality and the Great Spirit, but that’s an entry for my personal journal.

Plus, where is my own courage? I regret not standing up on behalf of the artist and his quiet fans to entreat these yahoos to keep silent. My father did that once at an oratory event. He'd had enough of the rude patrons talking and laughing over the speakers. The action stunned me at the time and since I was a kid, sort of embarrassed me until one of my peers went over to him after to shake his hand in thanks. Now, of course, I see that he was incredibly brave, a champion for human rights.

And truly, when it comes down to it, the only thing that would have made such an experience perfect would be Eddie Vedder hanging out in our living room, playing guitar and chatting over a beer and some good food. As well as winning the lottery. So let’s move on.

Books…

The Lives They Left Behind by Darby Penney and Peter Statstny. Recommended to me by a friend who is mutually in love with the old Worcester State Asylum. Most of the buildings are destroyed now, but the old clock tower remains, and both for its architecture and history deserves to be remembered.

Anyway, the book is a non-fiction account of the lives of a handful of patients who lived at Willard Asylum in New York at the start of the 20th Century. Hundreds of suitcases were found in the attic of the institution and the authors chose a few to trace the history of each owner both pre- and post-institution. Amazing the range of patients – some were just misfits, some truly ill, and some temporarily depressed. Each tale reveals a glimpse into life at asylums that were originally built to restore morality and compassion to the mentally ill. Unfortunately, as with any well-intentioned human endeavor, the system sort of fell in upon itself. You know, the road to hell and all. A fascinating and melancholy read. For a good scare after reading, because we are all depraved, rent Session Nine. And check out this site.

The Outlaw Demon Wails by Kim Harrison. Had a hard time with the first half of the book and before you anticipate a negative review, think again. Rachel (and the novel) seemed to be plodding along. Plus I resented Marshal’s place by her side and am utterly frustrated with the relationship between Rachel and Ivy -- they are so right for eah other as best friends but anything more just seems like a trite plot development.

Then I realized (halfway through), that I was in mourning -- I missed Kisten way too much -- and I almost gave the series up. I read a little further and it all snapped into place. Rachel was is mourning, too, as was the author. So kudos, yet again, to Harrison for carrying her reader right along through Rachel’s life. Harrison pays the appropriate respects to Kisten then allows Rachel to begin to live again.

And how she begins! There is major character growth (for Ivy and Trent as well), new relationship aspects to explore (her mom, Quen, Al, among others) and some amazing secrets revealed. The book ends happy, all tied up in a bow, with plenty of frayed ends for the next installment. A great escape.

Just starting: Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States in anticipation of the forthcoming television event and Alistair MacLeod’s No Great Mischief.

Not on My iPod but Wish They Were: Sun Kil Moon, Damien Rice, and The Cave Singers.

Blog of Note: Love Patricia Kennealy-Morrisons’s post on John Edwards’s idiocy. And China’s injustice. The woman ain’t afraid to speak her mind! Check it out here.

Website of Note: My blog is a frivolous one, bred for escapism, but this one speaks of a reality we, as Americans, have no right to ignore or brush aside. Thank you, Tomas Young.

The Eddie Vedder Theory

2008-07-24T15:52:00.004-05:00

Oh, my baby, my baby she don't want me no more
Ever since she saw his poster in that record store
She says the way he grinds his molars is really sexy
She thinks he's so darn dysfunctional and "Generation X"y
She likes his brooding angst and his wild-eyed stare
Yeah, he's her very favorite slacker multi-millionaire

Well, my baby's in love with Eddie Vedder
She's all crazy 'bout that Eddie Vedder
Once she was mine, but now I better just forget her
'Cause my baby's in love with Eddie Vedder

-Weird Al Yankovic

Sorry, Sirius Black, my unattainable literary crush. You’ve toppled from first place on The List. I’m in love with unattainable rock star Eddie Vedder. And it seems I’m not alone, if Weird Al’s song is any indication. Luckily for me, though, my husband looks far more like Eddie than Al so peace still reigns in our home.

A crush on EV is difficult to sustain and quite exhausting. Intelligence constantly battles with shallow desire, creating a personal war zone.

Despite eyes that can melt the ice caps, a voice fashioned from caramel at Willy Wonka’s factory, that surfer body and rock star cool, EV seems like a decent chap, a regular guy. He’s a doting father, champion of kindness and decency, hard-working professional, and warrior for the downtrodden. He exemplifies anti-celebrity and all the shallow behavior that accompanies such state.

Lusting after EV is an insult to the man, really, and I don’t think he’d approve of me wasting time and energy plotting ways to capture his attention at his upcoming show at the Opera House. So far, the best I have is the old bra-in-the-face move that is guaranteed to garner his annoyance... and extreme fright, since removing my bra in public could be considered an act of criminal intent.

A theme in George Eliot’s books is how romantic love can help better one’s character or, alternatively, if one chooses poorly, love can ruin one’s life. Now, a person of substance will find inner strength and wisdom to perfect his or her character. Some find inspiration and guidance through religion. I am not such a person.

Falling in love inspires me to be a better person. Since I can’t sustain a crush on my true love (aka husband) ALL the time, I have crushes on unattainables. And when in love with said unattainable, I am kinder, courteous, charitable, inspired, energetic and joy filled. Perhaps this is shallow, but it works. I’ve tried religion, but it doesn’t click for me and while I do not believe you can find a better man’s example to follow than Jesus's, somehow, having a crush on Jesus just seems wrong. Although it did work for Mary Magdalene.

Hence Eddie Vedder. A crush on EV will not only inspire you to wait outside his Boston hotel for hours until he walks out via the back entrance so that he's missed entirely, but you will no doubt volunteer at a soup kitchen to balance out the day. Pick Brett Michaels, on the other hand and all you will end up with is leathery skin and a lifelong supply of cheaply made push-up bras. And possibly lung cancer.

So Eddie, thank you for allowing me to justify my insanity. I’ll see you on August 1. I’ll be in the Dress Circle, first row, dead center. If you say hello, I won’t have to remove my bra.

How Loving EV Improves My Character: It’s so easy to be kind to strangers. Don’t need the man for that. I am, currently, more patient and compassionate to those that are close to me at those times when they most get on my nerves. Now, I don’t pull my hair out when my toddler asks the same why question for two hours straight. I can laugh and shake my head fondly at my husband for wearing that ridiculous red bandana. And my father’s whistling ceases to…well, that still drives me to snarl at him. I’m working on it.

Charity of Choice: There are too many people in need – war veterans, firefighters, disaster casualties, disease victims, battered children…for awhile, I was giving little bits here and little bits there, which only left me more depressed and hopeless, similar as to how one feels after watching Gone, Baby, Gone. Now, I pick one charity and donate to that once a year. It’s not enough, but financially, it’s the best I can do and it's a start.

So I choose The Smile Train. Those poor children, born into pain and ridicule, and there’s an easy and inexpensive fix for it.

Song of the Day: We’ve All Been Beat Up Enough (Bow Thayer, not Eddie Vedder. Really.) Followed by Jabe's Goddam Train. Can't get it out of my head and I don't mind it one bit.

Nightstand Reading: Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies. Beautiful.

Bittersweet Symphony

2008-07-07T07:54:00.002-05:00

So it’s been a bittersweet month in my personal world of arts and entertainment. I’m not complaining because I feel pretty lucky that artistic and literary pangs are my biggest concern in this day and age. What’s the line from Pearl Jam’s “Wishlist?" -- something like: “I wish I were as fortunate, as fortunate as me.”

My insights, then, or lack thereof:

The big show. Pearl Jam. I haven’t seen them since the early nineties when Lollapalooza and Great Woods were both cool and I was able to traipse from lawn to mosh pit just in time to help pass Eddie Vedder over the crowd. I didn’t wash my hands for two days.

Same place fifteen years later. Great Woods is now the Comcast Center and there is barely a lawn to speak of and certainly no mosh pit. My tickets were smack in the middle – too far away to see anything and as the Comcast Center probably has the worst sound stage in history, the music was blurred. Generally, it was an unpleasant experience, surrounded by very drunk ex-frat boys (and one sixty year old, brown leather skinned vodka pickled Vineyard fashion clad woman). And my husband, who wore an I-told-you-so-smirk the entire time.

And he’s right. We are spoiled here in Boston. So many clubs, so many really talented bands who go on to fame and fortune. And we just walk in and fully experience the music. Sure there are drunk guys ambling around making general nuisances of themselves somehow believing that you are there to see them and not the band, but these are mere gnats, easy to tune out. Instead, you can see and feel the passion of the music, the synergy of bands, the intricacies of fingers dancing along guitar strings.

So stadium shows just don’t cut it at all unless you are of the mentality that you are one with the crowd, one with your idol up there on stage, voices mimicking, arms waving. Blech. This is mob mentality, not creativity, not community. It feels dangerous and creepy.

Community is sitting in a circle at my son’s toddler playgroup singing songs and dancing. It is humbling and bonding and promises burgeoning creativity. A beginning. I can’t explain it. The Pearl Jam crowd felt like mass failure – armchair athletes. An end. We left early.

That said, here’s the sweet. Pearl Jam was incredible. The performance, the music, the energy – they give the audience back what they paid in tickets and gas and then some. And no-one can create a feeling of community like Eddie Vedder. In fact, in those fleeting moments between songs, when he spoke to the crowd, I felt truly part of a community of hope, as if we were sitting around the fire taking turns telling stories.

Now, the members of Pearl Jam are heavy on the activism and support many charities. This is easy to do when you have power and money, right? Many fans won’t argue what their rock gods utter, never bothering to reason to discover their own opinions. And charity? The rest of us can barely afford tickets to their shows so how are we supposed to give money or time to charity, right?

Wrong.

You don’t need money to be kind, to train yourself to think outside of yourself, to find ways to improve the lot of those around you, even if it’s just bestowing a smile. And hurray! Pearl Jam exemplifies this, which was evident by its frontman’s converstion. He wished us well – not the “Hey, how y’all doing in [fill in city of choice]?” banter that most bands spout in an attempt to show that they care about their fans, and if you ask me how Mr. Vedder was any different, I can’t pinpoint it. He just was.

Part of it was his choice of topics such as the one about the little local boy who, learning to play guitar, had just figured out his first chords to a Pearl Jam tune. The band dedicated a song to him, even bothered to remember his name. They took the time to give hope to one kid. An average kid, not a gifted one, not one dying of cancer. Just a plain ole kid. Doesn’t take money or time to do that. Just kindness.

The Big Screen. Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull. Left the theater with a smile on my face, mainly because I wanted to like the movie so I did, even though it boasted some lazy writing: a clichéd plot that seemed to steal from a plethora of other movies, including its own ancestors. But Harrison Ford slips into Indiana as if no time has passed, the glimpses of old characters and quarry pleased the palate, and Marion is front and center in Indy’s life, as she should be. Best is Mutt, Indy’s son in every way, but not yet quite ready to fill the old man’s shoes. Don’t expect the high quality of writing that distinguished Raiders and you’ll leave with more sweets on your brain than bitters.

The book. Alice Hoffman’s Third Angel. I borrowed this from the library on a speed-read loan so I caught the gist but really didn’t take the time to delve into symbolism and themes as the book deserves. So I might be wrong in my interpretation.

As usual, Hoffman doesn’t disappoint, although this novel drags the reader into hopelessness most of the way through, leaving one melancholy at the close of each chapter. There are no villians or heroes – just humans.

The characters, despite their privileged social standing, suffer so much sadness, especially Lucy, who, at the start of the novel, is the mother of two daughters. Lucy’s cancer left them motherless for a time and the repercussions of her disease infect their adult lives.

Later in the book, we read about Lucy’s childhood. Life really should not have thrown her cancer in her adult life. It’s really not fair at all. But isn’t that the nature of earthly living?

Yet Hoffman, at the last, saves her reader from despair. She gives us hope via a character that has no hope (although, he too, later finds it), Lucy’s third angel. Hoffman, as the author, is ours.

THE book. Finally finished the Harry Potter series and I’m bummed that it’s over, but what a perfect little symphony JK Rowling has created. I cheered (Mrs. Weasley, Luna, Neville, and, what ho, Kreacher!), was bummed by all the losses, and was surprised by the lasting sadness for Severus Snape. He was cheated. He did not get his due.

The last book completed the first, and proves that character is fate. Upon further reflection of Snape, he probably did get the justice he deserved. His character certainly wasn’t stellar, despite his bravery and loyalty.

I do agree, however, with some critics who believe the epilogue was not necessary. The last sentence of the last chapter was as good as it gets. Still, the epilogue offered the romance novel ending that’s packed with peanuts and more shows that Harry paid public homage to one of the truest heroes of the tales.

On the horizon: The entertainment gods have heard my woes. Eddie Vedder, solo, small stage (so the Opera House isn’t exactly Toad, but it far beats the Comcast Center), providing an intimate evening with banjos, mandolin, and his lovely baritone. I'm selling my husband for tickets. He's pretty hot and he cooks. Anyone, anyone?

On the iPod: Do you really need a hint?

The Hippies Are Right

2008-05-17T12:42:00.002-05:00

So I had a dream about Viggo Mortensen last night and no, unfortunately, he was not naked.

In it, I was at work and he showed up at the office. Star struck, I stared for a bit before I mustered the courage to greet him. Instead of asking about his considerable artistic talents, his activism, or how he manages to look so hot at age fifty, I desperately wanted to know the answer to one question: how, as a father, does he keep from going insane from worry in this decaying world?

I didn’t have to explain what I meant. He knew. And he answered as I suppose the real Viggo would. He said, “You have to teach them to love and be kind so they grow and teach others to love and be kind. That’s the best you can do.”

Actually, in real life, my mother said those words to me after I lamented the constant fear that engulfs me now that I’m a parent. There are the normal, simmering fears that come with parenthood one has to swallow and try to forget or else smother the poor child: choking, freak accidents, illness, and rabid bats.

Then there are the added modern worries of the present age and they are legion: kidnapping and molestation, cyber-bullying, youth violence, crystal meth, nuclear war, video games, the uselessness of world religions and politics where even the best-intentioned go awry, plastic surgery, plastic food, plastic lifestyles, boy bands, crystal meth, flesh eating bacteria, identity theft…the list goes on.

All around, there is a sense of impending doom. Food shortages, global warming, killer storms, dying bees, dying bats (even rabid bats is a better alternative than a world over-run by blood-sucking insects), and the end of the Mayan calendar.

The title of Barack Obama’s book, The Audacity of Hope, is a brilliant phrase because it truly does seem bold to entertain a glimmer of sunshine in a world where the conditions described in The Road don’t seem too far off.

The alternative, though, worrying until one’s stomach acids turn one into a sizzling puddle of madness on the kitchen floor, isn’t an option. One must continue and strive to be the best one can be and, to quote that hippy song whose title and singer I cannot recall, “teach your children well.”

Listen to my mother. But if it helps, picture Viggo saying it. Naked.

On My iPod: The Sisters of Mercy’s “Nine While Nine” and Jabe’s “Goddam Train.”

In My Belly: Johnny D’s Cajun mussels and Coleman burger and fries. It’s worth the airfare into Boston just for this one meal.

Quote of the Day: “Margaret the Churchwoman her father the Dissenter, Higgins the Infidel, knelt down together. It did them no harm.” Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South.

A Sirius Point

2008-05-04T10:47:00.003-05:00

Now that my mother (the only person that reads this blog) has finally finished Order of the Phoenix, I can finally post the article I wrote for my local RWA chapter's newsletter.

SPOILER ALERT: I hereby give fair warning on the rare chance that someone else is reading this blog who 1) is not my mother and 2) hasn't yet finished the fifth installment of the Harry Potter series. Here it is:

Crushes are an integral ingredient to a happy marriage. Flirtations, fantasies, hopeless pining, in small doses, keep the neurons jumping, the senses hopping, the blood singing, the pelvis…well, you get my drift.

Of course, there’s a fine line between an invigorating crush and donning the scarlet A. Fortunately for me, I don’t find other men, aside from my True Love and Reformed Rake (code name: husband), all that enticing. Other real men, that is.

No. I have the tendency to pine for fictional characters, usually from books. The lust fires are fanned if a character comes to life in a movie version of the book. Jude Law portraying Inman from Cold Mountain is positively delicious. Jude Law the man? Eh. And Wolverine from comic book fame gets my heart pumping. Add Hugh Jackman to the mix and you may see drool dribble down my chin.

To the average person, this may seem a tad abnormal, but I’m a romance author. Falling in love is what we do.

A couple of months ago I revisited an old lover. Mr. Darcy. I re-read Pride and Prejudice, watched the Colin Firth movie version, pressing the slow motion button during the oh-so-not-Jane-Austen lake scene, conversed in the Queen’s English and pretended my four-room condo was Pemberley. A week later, the courtship ended.

Of course, my husband has crushes, too. In fact, we have a List. Some of you will know what I’m talking about. This wish list contains names of people with whom one hopes to spend time naked, ideally before one starts to sag. Should the opportunity for such a liaison arise, one’s spouse will turn a blind eye to the shenanigans. It’s a one-time deal with only one person on the List. In our marriage, I have to cheat first. This rule, I am sure, is a remnant of our early religious educations about Eve in the Garden, but that is another story.

Last month, the top three names on my list were: 1) Jemmy from Moll Flanders (it helps that Daniel Craig plays him in the movie), 2) Kisten Felps from the Dead Witch Walking series and 3) The Incredible Mr. Limpet.

My husband won’t tell me the names on his list. He says he doesn’t want me to worry.

My latest crush, however, has moved beyond the bounds of propriety and into that dangerous Scarlett O’Hara brand of adultery. I believe it’s called delusional obsession. I’m not sure why this shift in my brain has occurred. Perhaps it’s the Seven Year Itch. Or sleep deprivation. Then again, there’s always a chance I’m just plain crazy.

All I know is that this crush trumps all others on the List and were it possible, I’d be right up there with ole’ Hester herself. But it’s not possible. You see, I’ve fallen madly in love with Sirius Black, recently escaped from Azkaban Prison.

He’s the perfect romance hero – a man on the run, accused of a crime he did not commit, reckless, loyal, broken and in need of a woman to save him. The trouble is, there is no woman. No romance. Would it have killed J.K. Rowling to give Sirius a little nookie between his imprisonment and ultimate fate?

I’ve read Order of the Phoenix three times hoping that the story will change. It hasn’t. I brood, I moan, I sigh. Sadly, I haven’t given up ice cream yet so my waistline is not at all benefiting from this pining.

I re-write Sirius’s tale while I’m washing dishes, vacuuming, and in lieu of sleep. In my version, Sirius and an unnamed Muggle woman from Somerville fall madly in love and defeat the evil Voldemort before making wild wizard love and walking into the sunset together. “Dina,” my husband says with a bemused yet worried frown, “He’s dead. And hello? NOT REAL.”

I knew my infatuation had become a problem when my husband emerged from the bathroom on Saturday night wearing a black and white striped jumpsuit, Azkaban scrawled across his chest, and a hopeful expression on his face.

Clearly, something needs to change. So before I start psychotherapy, I’m making time on my schedule to write again in hopes that a creative outlet will solve the problem. After all, lust fades. Until then, Sirius stays at the top of the List and maybe I can convince my husband to don the Azkaban costume again until I move onto the next crush.

That Mr. Darcy!

2008-04-26T13:09:00.002-05:00

Just got back from a business trip in Virginia to take a course on how to torture your direct reports by making them set SMART goals. It was actually a great course (look out, Cindy!), but I can’t abide spending an entire day locked in a conference facility only to go to dinner at a chain restaurant and stay at a chain hotel near a concrete airport, so I opted to take the Metro to Old Town Alexandria each night, surrounding myself with gas lights, cobble stone streets, Federalist homes, blooming trees laden with moss, and the scent of English boxwood everywhere.

It poured for three days straight, but I walked for two hours a day, happy under a giant umbrella and although I was too wound up to sleep, I’ve never been more at ease in my insomnia than in that Kimpton bed at the Morrison House Hotel.

Plus I had a great book. The Confession of Fitzwilliam Darcy by Mary Street.

As a rule, I’ve learned to avoid sequels, prequels, other character’s point-of-view remakes of classics. They are generally poorly written, plot-driven nightmares that foul the reader’s brain and sully the original work.

Scarlett is one such example. And I’ve learned to absolutely avoid all – and there are way too many – renditions of Pride and Prejudice. Even the latest movie version with Keira Knightley was a disaster. Why mess with the Colin Firth one (which I enjoyed even more than the original BBC rendition with David Rintoul, mainly because it was just a little less bookish)?

Speaking of botches, did any one see Masterpiece’s A Room With a View last Sunday night? I couldn’t sit through five minutes. How can one top the Helena Bonham Carter, Julian Sands, Daniel Day Lewis, Judi Dench, Maggie Smith, Denholm Elliott version (not to mention the glorious soundtrack)? It just isn’t possible.

Then, again, there are some re-knits of classics that are done very well. The movie update of Emma in the form of Clueless is a perfect modern translation of the original.

Alice Hoffman's version of Wuthering Heights captures the themes, mood and basic plot of Bronte's classic but is all Hoffman, rife with dark magic and beauty. Even the title, Here on Earth, pays homage to Cathy's dream of Heaven but clearly stakes its independence from the classic. And H, The Return to Wuthering Heights, is a well-written tale from Heathcliff’s point of view about the three years in which he spent away from the moors.

Then there’s The Wide Sargasso Sea, a prequel to Jane Eyre featuring Bertha Mason’s point-of-view and deftly capturing her descent into madness while stirring the reader’s pity for both Rochester and the mad woman that she becomes.

But I have no interest in reading Rhett Butler’s People. Mitchell destroyed her sequel and clearly wanted no sequels, spin-offs, or other such nonsense. I learned my lesson from Scarlett and the other spin-off, And the Wind Done Gone, which was so far removed from the original that it was insulting (or laughable, if you tend toward humorous worldview). I’m not sure what if the author’s intent was to parody the classic or to make a social statement about the evils of slavery and Mitchells’s view of the Old South through rose-colored glasses, but it didn’t work. She would have done better to write a non-fiction critique or better yet, an original novel to de-romanticize the past.

Back to Pride and Prejudice. Never again, I once swore, would I read another Pride sequel. The last two I’d attempted gave me nightmares and it took many re-readings of the original to wash the taint from my mind.

Yet something about Street’s book tempted me. Couldn’t get its review out of my head. Hard earned money spent, it was with great trepidation that I opened that book on the plane. I finished it in a day and closed it, well-satisfied with the experience and light of heart as a result.

I still won’t read any other Pride and Prejudice embroidery, but I will re-read Confessions. The author succeeds because she does not digress from Austen’s intent. In fact, she uses direct quotes of dialogue from the original, then works Mr. Darcy’s point of view around Austen’s words so that the reader is always rooted in Jane’s world.

For a lesser author, this would be plagiarism, but Street knows what she is about, almost as if Jane whispered the book to her as she typed. It is a pleasure to watch Darcy fall in love with Elizabeth and more importantly, grow as an individual, and the read is riveting and wholesome, much like the original.

On the Nightstand: Reading J.D. Robb’s Strangers in Death to be followed by a re-read of Elizabeth Gaskell’s North and South (just watched the outstanding BBC miniseries and am anxious to revisit this darker pride and prejudice tale)

On the iPod: Lots of Pearl Jam in anticipation of their June concert in Mansfield.

Recently viewed: Walk Hard, the Dewey Cox Story. I’m pretty sure I lost a few brain cells watching that one, but Eddie Vedder was in it so that’s my excuse for wasting two hours of life.

The Folly of Free Will

2008-03-11T12:55:00.005-05:00

We were so angry when Man was given free will, but why, when they all hold the belief their lives are determined by anything other than their free will? And the right to vote.
(Darin Morgan, “Somehow, Satan Got Behind Me”)

As Hesse states in Steppenwolf, “Enough with death-dealing!” No more depressing reads. There have been a slew of them – Atonement, On Chesnil Beach, The Road, Boys and Girls Together, the short story "Bridges of Eden Park" (sob! Kisten!)…

Instead, I went to see Juno, the perfect antidote to a depressed worldview, and read Loretta Chase’s Lord Perfect, a book that almost makes me want to start writing again.

I haven’t worked on a book in two years. Unprofessional to admit, true, but with work and child I have no energy to gather the will and put paper to pen. Nora Roberts, I am not. Luckily, I have mostly stopped caring and have shed the mantle of guilt that has hounded me.

Should I feel guilty about wasting my God-given talent? Probably. Maybe it’s a phase. Maybe not. All I know is that I’m nearly content to let other authors entertain me for a while.

The problem is that I do get two hours to myself each night, which is way more time than most professional women with children, job, spouse, house, dogs, possess. Sometimes I watch a movie (Little Miss Sunshine is up next), sometimes I watch “Lost,” but mostly I just read and end up putting away three or four books a week. I feel this is wrong.

C.S. Lewis would agree. In one of his essays, he states that reading, his passion as well as mine, is a sin because it steals one’s will from focusing on God’s will. I suspect that this is true. Reading too much leaves one with a nasty taste in one’s mouth. As discussed in a previous blog, it’s an addiction, really, much like heroin. Or cigarettes. Or Haagen-Das.

Speaking of old C.S., if you haven’t read the Screwtape Letters, do pick it up. It’s a hilarious account of the demon Screwtape’s lessons to his nephew on how to lure humans from God. Yes, it’s a religious theme, but I promise it is not preachy. It’s funny and offers insight on human behavior. Whether you’re an atheist or a thumper of the Good Book, if you want to better your own human condition, you’d best pay attention to Screwtape’s lesons and avoid becoming a victim.

I just Netflixed a few episodes of the 1990’s television series, Millennium. One episode, called "Somehow, Satan Got Behind Me", features four demons in a coffee shop discussing their personal methods of corrupting humans. The show’s hero, Frank Black, is the sole human who can see through their human disguise and know them for the demons that they really are. Whether Darin Morgan wrote this episode as a tribute to Screwtape, I do not know, but it’s a poignant and humorous spin on the book.

Back to my confessions. As you can see, I could be utilizing my free time in a much better fashion. I could work on my marriage, summon the willpower to write a novel, lose excess belly fat, help my fellow human sufferer, practice my banjo so I can learn something other than "Little Sadie." Volunteer my time to help better the human condition. Become a Big Sister. Maybe take my neighbor’s children for an evening so that she can have a date with her husband.

Okay, already, so I’m feeling guilty. Admission is half the battle, right?

Blogs of Note: Devshirme. Who knew a priest could be so cool?

On the iPod: Minor Threat, White Stripes, Cathode, Remy Zero, Fergie MacDonald, Kitchens of Distinction

After Little Miss Sunshine: Whether its my upcoming trip to historic Alexandria, Virginia or the fact that Patrick Swayze is in the news, I woke up with the theme music to North and South in my head and have the yen to watch, for the tenth time, Books One and Two of John Jake’s brilliant North and South. (I choose to forget the abysmal Book Three. The book was good; the movie detestable.)

And isn’t it an easy world in which most of us Americans live? Every ridiculous whim is fulfilled by a click of the mouse. I want to waste a dozen hours watching a miniseries from my high school era and voila! There it is. Blessings are wasted on such as me. I scorn Paris Hilton but really, I’m not any better.

Waiting on the Nightstand: Yes, it is time for Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

The Ghost and Mrs. Muir

2008-02-11T15:06:00.000-05:00

Last night, I put The Bug to bed, hopped into my PJs and got a big bowl of Haagen-Dazs Reserved Sweet Cream with Hawaiian Honey. (I admit that I went to the store today and bought all the pints I could, just in case the limited edition disappears before our next shopping trip. It’s always best to be prepared for disaster.)

Then, turning on the television an hour prior to show time to set the ambience, I sat down with my scrapbooking project in anticipation of Masterpiece’s Pride and Prejudice, which I already own on DVD, and yes, I am happily married and no, I don’t own any cats. I just enjoy the spinster lifestyle.

But I didn’t scrapbook. And my ice cream melted. The Ghost and Mrs. Muir just happened to be on. It’s not brilliant movie-making and the story has no gripping twists or deep characterization but every time I see it, I get a pang deep within my chest and end up crying buckets. Wuthering Heights, on-screen, has the same effect (the one with Laurence Olivier and the BBC Masterpiece one – the others just made me nauseous).

But the Ghost and Mrs. Muir is so melancholy. The lonely, moody sea, the music, the bitterness of life, which, to her misfortune, the elegant, kind Mrs. Muir chooses over her dead sea captain. All those lonely years spent with her aging housekeeper until finally, finally, she dies and the Captain returns for her. The movie ends with a stormy sea and happy ending, but it’s still bittersweet and hurts to watch.

On my bookshelf: Neil Gaiman’s Sandman, Volume 6.

On the iPod: Mazzy Star "Into Dust"; Tom Waits "Cold Cold Ground"; Jabe "Both Hands on the Wheel"; Edith Piaf "La Vie en Rose"

The Big Game

2008-02-03T11:43:00.000-05:00

The Superbowl is today and as I live in Boston, fans of the Patriots surround me. Cheers of anticipation (“Patriots will conquer!”) and moans of fear (“But what if they lose?”) bounce from beyond the Neck to the far reaches of Copp’s Hill. Women are sighing over Tom Brady. Men are sighing over Tom Brady. Mayor Menino has planned the Great Victory Parade (“Pats will conquer!”) on Super Tuesday. I wince to think what the election results will be if the Pats win.

Then there’s the woman I met on the T who thought Patriots Day was in honor of the team.

The worst of the hoopla surrounding this year’s Big Game, though, is the weird entitlement of certain Patriots’ fans. I really don’t get it. I understand rooting for a team, sitting back with a beer and enjoying the game, talking statistics and analyzing players. Maybe even getting a little passionate about it. That’s cool.

But I as I listened to the comments of a morning DJ, my passions, which NEVER extend to the sports arena, unless it involves a horse biopic like "Seabiscuit," became engaged. The gentleman raved about newbies, those fans who are suddenly jumping on the Patriots bandwagon without having paid their dues. They haven’t suffered through the dismal years and have no right to partake in the spoils of victory. (Hello? Suffering? Over lost football games? Did you perhaps clutch the remote too hard and lose a finger or two due to blood loss? And, hmmm, have you been to Darfur lately?)

He went on to insist that a fan must keep one’s month shut unless that individual has been following the team for at least three years and knows a minimal of six team members and their respective positions. If Americans had more zeal for knowing the names and positions of those in power in our government, the country may be a better place.

Enough ranting. I will pass the Super Bowl as I usually do – with a romance novel in one hand, a cup of tea in the other, and the Puppy Bowl on my television as I count down the day to my Super Bowl. The Oscars. (And yes, you Pats fans may laugh heartily – I often laugh the loudest at this equally pathetic penchant I have for armchair competitions – the Globes, the SAGs, and the king of them all…the Oscars.)

My husband, in an attempt to humor me, shares in the zeal to the extent of food prep. It’s tradition to feast on high-calorie, high-fat appetizers all day long. The standard nibbles include spinach balls, crabmeat canapés, sushi, bean dip, and whatever new recipes tickle our fancy. Then it’s time for the Red Carpet. I don PJs, the red silk ones that come out from hiding once a year, and my dear husband plants himself in front of his Mac to kill demons while I indulge in star gazing, hopes high for a Viggo spotting (it’s a guarantee this year, unless the strike continues).

The DH is attentive to the Big Game. When I croon over a dress or sigh over a handsome actor, scoff at a self-indulgent acceptance speech or grow teary at an especially moving one, DH presses a button on his Mac, which activates his pre-recorded voice saying, “How lovely” or "Yes, dear.”

Such a wonderful evening, bonded in camaraderie.

Recently Read: The Road. One of the top ten books I’ve ever read. I finished it three weeks ago and I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s dismal, uncomfortable, and full of hope. (And, yippee, Viggo is set to play the father in the movie version – I can’t think of a better actor for this role. No-one captures the tragic hero like Viggo Mortensen.)

Recently Seen: "Eastern Promises." Yes, I am shallow and Netflixed this one only because I heard Viggo appears in his altogether (and may I say, he is altogether delicious?); however, I was blown away by this tale of the Russian mob in London, a story which alternates between hope and despair for the two main characters. Can’t get it out of my head. Another one that I can’t seem to forget is "Atonement." Brilliant imagery. Gripping tale. I left the theater in a sad state of mind, but it was well worth it.

On My Nightstand: Loretta Chase’s Mr. Impossible. This romance author is the best at capturing the custom, language, and manners of the Regency era. She has a wonderful command of the English language and world history and tells a witty story with quirky heroes and heroines. Much needed after my recent excursions in books and movies.

It's Been a Long Time, Charlie Brown...

2007-12-16T13:36:00.000-05:00

Too brain-dead and stressed about the hordes of money recently spent on Christmas Humbug, I couldn’t even focus on the Kim Harrison short story book I’ve been reading.

Visions of credit card bills danced through my head, sending courses of panic right through my bed. So I closed the book, made some hot chocolate, and turned on the DVD instead.

Glad I did. “Stranger Than Fiction” left me thinking and smiling, which is always a blessing.

The obvious theme – which came first, art or life; does art imitate life or does art create life? – is intriguing enough but either I’m not deep enough to resolve the question or it’s really just a matter of opinion. And the movie offers so many other life themes to ponder that the art vs. life questions seems rather silly, except to artist type people.

The movie will resonate with writers via Emma Thompson’s character, who is the stereotypical self-absorbed introvert living and breathing her characters. Her book, her creation, is all that matters until she realizes the effect her book is having on a real human being. Only then does she really feel, really come to life as a human, just as she had brought her character to life from his mundane existence. This change in her affects her book’s ending, naturally, much to the disappointment of her biggest fan, an equally self-absorbed literature professor who is the symbol of the publishing industry, in my opinion. Sure, Cold Mountain is literary genius, but what if Frazier had let Inman live? I shall tell you. The novel still would have been a bestseller but literary critics would have scoffed just a little, labeling it a glorified romance novel.

“Stranger Than Fiction” also appeals to a writer/artist in its evaluation of the writing process – is the author Creator or is she a vessel serving the character? In the movie, the author knows that her character is destined to die – she just doesn’t know how to kill him. She ponders contrivance after contrivance to slaughter Harold Crick while poor Harold, a very real person, tries to evade his fate. But it’s only until the author stops trying to kill him that his death comes to her. If she let the character decide his fate in the first place, instead of playing God, she wouldn’t have writer’s block.

Now, forget the writing process for a while and look at the story from Harold’s perspective. Harold, like most of us poor sods, is in a rut, neither happy nor sad, living but not alive, and unremarkable but a pretty decent human being. When he realizes that he is a puppet to an author, however, he suddenly develops free will. Frantic to find his creator to stop his imminent death, he also begins to come alive. He becomes brave, learning to play the guitar and bringing his crush a gift. He shows his true self. He flourishes, and then he meets his maker.

When the author meets Harold, her world view shifts. She sees herself as a murderer, yet clearly, her story is best served if Harold dies. Instead, she intervenes, intentionally playing God, changing Harold’s fate.

The literature professor would rather sacrifice the man to save the story. To him, the author’s book no longer qualifies as literature. It is merely “okay.” But as a human, the author is redeemed. Her life’s work is substandard by the world’s standards, but she choose to uplift her fellow human, refusing to kill a source of the world’s joy, thus uplifting her own soul.

And then, there’s the lesson of never judging a book by its cover, which is perhaps the most important theme in the movie. The object of Harold’s affection, like the viewer, sees Harold as a boring, rigid, slightly odd – a disposable human. But as we see Harold’s oddness as a shell hiding his awkwardness and kind intentions, we begin to feel compassionate toward him and as he begins to break his shell, we celebrate that such a man, who only wants to spread joy, exists. This boring everyday accountant is a true hero of humanity.

It’s just a good story. Watch it. It’s the “It’s a Wonderful Life” for Generation X.

On My Nightstand: Still delaying the inevitable end of Harry Potter. Just finished Haruki Murakami’s Blind Woman, Sleeping Willow and Stephen King’s The Green Mile. Currently reading Kim Harrison’s Two Ghosts for Sister Rachel and Karen Marie Moning’s Darkfever. All are highly recommended.

On My iPod: ‘Tis the season. All Christmas, all the time. Loreena McKennitt and New England Christmastide are my favorites along with the classic Waitresses “Christmas Wrapping” and an Oi! version of “White Christmas.” Then there’s Bing. Sigh. So hot.

Recommended Movies: “Waitress.” Another joy of life movie. Warning: don’t watch if you are trying to lose weight. Also, while you are trimming your tree, pop in "Nightmare Before Christmas" -- I mean, why wouldn't you?

To Maintain a Smile for a Week...

2007-10-19T17:16:00.000-05:00

Read Neil Gaiman's Anansi Boys and watch "Miss Potter."

Dobby Happy

2007-10-01T13:30:00.000-05:00

My 20-month old son has no comprehension about his mother's obsession with Harry Potter. He has no idea that the Potter universe exists. I don't read the books to him and he is not exposed to the movies or promotional toys. He does know, however, that I've named the black dog on my Martha's Vineyard Black Dog coffee mug. When I point to it, he says, "Sirius Black," in that endearing toddler slur. Still, this doesn't explain his channeling of Dobby, the house elf.

Like most toddlers, my son is obsessive compulsive and likes to clean. The sight of a broom sends him into spasms and he actually looks forward to trash night. Lately, after his afternoon nap and snack, he tugs my pant leg and points to the rag bag. I oblige him and he spends a good hour or so scrubbing the walls and floor, chanting "Dobby happy" over and over. If I make him stop cleaning, he bangs his head against the wall, so I give him the cloth back and he tunes out the world, wipes the walls, and whispers, "Dobby happy, Dobby happy, Dobby happy..."

Book Ban

2007-09-30T12:46:00.000-05:00

You know you are destined to write romance novels when you’re reading Harry Potter and cursing J.K. Rowling for not giving Sirius a love interest then stay awake at night fantasizing about subplots involving Sirius Black and his Muggle soulmate. I think this is called fan-fiction, which is, of course, highly frowned upon, but really – is it so difficult to add a little spice to Harry Potter, especially with such a man as Sirius? He is a perfect hero…the escaped prisoner, falsely accused and on the run, scraggly yet gorgeous, brooding yet devilish. He needs a woman.

And I need a life. Or rather, I need to focus on my life instead of delving into others’ lives, especially when those lives are fictional. So I’ve given up escapism for a week. No books, television (not that there is anything worthwhile on television), magazines, daydreaming, and movies.

This is difficult for me. I need my reading fix. Every night, no mater how busy I am, I must read for at least a half-hour. If the stack of books on my table gets low, I break out in hives and get a funny pitching sensation in my belly. I depend on books. This is wrong. It’s an addiction.

I need to focus on my real life and relationships. So I’m going cold turkey.

On the first day, I alternated between rage and fear. On the second day, I got a migraine. On the third day, I fall cleaned my house. On the fourth day, I worked on my next book. On the fifth day, I ate a pint of Coldstone Creamery’s sweet cream ice cream (oops, escapism). And on the sixth day I gave up and started Middlesex, which isn’t really true escapism since I wouldn’t want to be any of the characters and as I am half-Greek, I am more than familiar with all the cultural truths and idiosyncrasies Eugenides describes. (Best quote from the book and relevant to whatever point I'm trying to make: "Real life doesn't live up to writing about it" or in my case, reading about it.)

Still, I’ve failed. Instead of creating my own Sirius to supply fodder for future readers’ obsessions or at least learning that new song on my banjo, I caved, brewed a cup of Earl Grey, scored some chocolate, and planted my behind on the couch with a book, effectively tuning out my husband, my dogs, the battalion of dust bunnies, and any remnant of self-will I’d begun to rebuild.

On My Nightstand: the last two Harry Potters, which I’m trying to avoid as I don’t want them to end.

Eagerly Anticipating: the new Eddie Vedder album, which is the soundtrack for the movie Into the Wild, a tale about one incredibly stupid human being.

Quote of the Day: "Whenever I look back on the best days of my life, I think I saw them all on TV." - The Bravery

Harry Potter and Gary Oldman

2007-08-28T15:27:00.000-05:00

Gary Oldman. Prisoner of Azkaban. Sizzling.

Maybe it’s the Eddie Vedder/Viggo as Aragorn/Jim Morrison beard thing combined with the dirty grimy bad boy posturing and rock’n’roll swagger, I don’t know. I’m smitten.

Always have been, really, but I’d forgotten. My first Gary Oldman movie was Sid and Nancy, which I originally watched because of my fascination with Sid Vicious, with whom I was not, thankfully, in love. Sid Vicious seemed a good symbol for my obsession with dark despair, somehow even trumping Heathcliff in my adolescent mind (not sure why). I even named my leather jacket Sid. Heck, for a while, I even called my mother Sid. Luckily, she understood that I was being affectionate.

After I watched the movie, though, I fell in love with Sid Vicious because Gary Oldman portrayed him. The real Sid, I suspect, was more like Frankenstein’s monster in both looks and intellect. I found every Gary Oldman movie I could, rarely falling in love again as Mr. Oldman tends to choose some shady, if complex, characters, Sid included (shady, that is – certainly not complex).

But that man can act! He has the very rare gift to lose Gary Oldman and become the part. Johnny Depp can do that as well; unfortunately, Johnny is too hot to ever really lose the Deppness, but who can really hold that against him?

One of my favorite Oldman characters is the pimp from True Romance (great movie) and although Dracula was horrible, I can't think of a better Dracula. Then there’s Prick Up Your Ears, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, JFK, Immortal Beloved…so many more. But Sirius Black. Sigh!

Speaking of Azkaban…I’m a little late coming into the Harry Potter craze but I’m tearing through the books now. Just waiting for Netflix to deliver Goblet before I start reading Order of the Phoenix. Escapism at its best.

On My Nightstand: High Noon by Nora Roberts (another great author of escapist fiction)

Quote of the Day: “I sit like a night alive with witches.” (Ben Hecht)

Daily blessing: October is almost here. No more humidity.

All the Pretty Little Horses...

2007-08-05T13:37:00.000-05:00

…is one of the few songs on my toddler’s various children’s CDs that I actually like. It’s really a rather creepy song with the description of the lost little lamb, dead, its little eyes fodder for crows. Calexico does a great version of the song, but they change the lyrics from a “lamb crying for its mother” to a “little child crying for its mother,” which is a bit traumatic if you are a mother.

Anyway, the song has been swimming around my head since my husband and I took our son to Nantasket Beach to ride the carousel and catch his first glimpse of the ocean (he was transfixed, of course). Last Saturday was one of those perfect summer days…high sun, no humidity, not too hot. The beach wasn’t crowded, or maybe it was just crowded enough, and there were enough fried clams and ice cream to sink a pirate ship.

Carousels in general just mystify me, especially old wooden ones like the one at Nantasket. The music, lights, ornate carvings and random paintings all spinning together to weave some sort of dark magic. Reminds me of Isak Dinesen’s “The Caryatids” about the gypsy’s water wheel curse. But nothing tops a carousel on the beach. The tang of salt in the air, the pull of the ocean, hot sand, surfers…it just works. Nantasket is a little faded compared to my favorite beach spot in Santa Cruz – the salt has rusted everything, the amusement park is long gone, and there is an aura of gloom despite the bright sun, but there’s that carousel.

The Santa Cruz carousel makes an appearance in Kicking Sideways. Cree, my heroine, doesn’t quite get the appeal:

Down on the beach, couples strolled at the edge of the surf and a man jogged with his dog. Behind them, the calliope played its macabre bells and Cree shivered. She hated the merry-go-round. To her, the calliope promised a ride to magical and faraway places, but as soon as you bought a ticket, you found that you had been duped, all hopes dashed in a never-ending circle of ups and downs and in the mouths of horses frozen while screaming.

So she turned her back on the beach and let the white and colored lights of the Boardwalk dazzle her until she could tune out the strains of the calliope. Mike, she snorted, no doubt loved the awful contraption. She looked at him and shook her head.

He was staring at the monstrous thing with a half smile on his lips and a dreamy look in his eyes.

Needless to say, I’m with Mike on this one.

Blogs of note: Loseractor.com, a hilarious romp through the days of an out-of-work actor and Mrs. Morrison’s Hotel, Patricia Kennealy Morrison’s blog, which is sometimes funny, sometimes serious, always intelligent and gets you thinking

On my nightstand: I’ve finally succumbed. I’m hitting the Harry Potters.

Just finished: White Teeth. Zadie Smith is an amazing writer; not sure how I ultimately felt about the story. Enjoyed the taste, but it didn't settle right in my belly.

Still the best coffee: NYC’s Brownstone Beans

Netflix this: Children of Men. Wow.

Favorite song lyric of the day: “I was puzzling the heavens and wandering around.” (“Stepside” by Jeremy Moses Curtis)

Favorites on my iPod this week:

Bow Thayer’s “Wingless Angels”
Tad’s “I’m a Jinx”
Old Crow Medicine Show’s “Wagon Wheel”
Pegboy’s “Strong Reaction”
Rick Springfield’s “Jessie’s Girl”
Jethro’s “Stepside”

A Random Blog

2007-07-17T11:32:00.000-05:00

You know how sometimes music sounds really good? Just perfect. A song comes on and you just rock out. I’m feeling the vibes, man, and it’s all good. The Monkees. Yes, The Monkees. “Goin’ Down.” Is there a better song to bug out to? And Pretty Hate Machine. The whole album is brilliant. Robert Plant. Wow.

I think it’s because of the season. Music always sounds great in summer. It goes along with that sun, sand, ocean, fried clam, carousel mood set that I crave. Perhaps that’s why Pearl Jam’s “Big Wave” is stuck in my head, a song I don’t particularly like. But it’s stuck there.

There is absolutely no point to this blog. Just rambling. My mind doesn’t work right anymore. I can’t seem to focus or generate one original thought. So I’ve decided just to be for a while and see what happens.

I am, however, taking banjo lessons as a creative outlet. Chasing a toddler all day while thinking about what I have to do at work or the undone chores around my house is slowly driving me mad. As I can’t seem to find the wherewithal to write my own novels these days, I’ve been over-imbibing is music and pleasure reading. Not good. Too much selfish, creativity stifling activity. Thus, the banjo. Maybe I’ll learn how to play something else besides “Little Sadie” over and over and over again.

Anyhow, I’m taking lessons at a place in Cambridge that seems inspired by the movie “School of Rock.” Lots of energy and it’s conveniently located next to my favorite tavern, Atwood’s. A little bratwurst and Guinness after finger pickin’ – can’t go wrong!

Speaking of reading…I have read two great books recently besides, of course, Miss Spider’s Tea Party and Snuggly Wuggly. Lamb, by Christopher Moore, about Jesus’s life as told by his best friend, Bif, is hilarious and touching. It’s one of those books that resonates with the reader for weeks to follow.

And I just finished Kim Harrison’s For a Few Demons More. Cried my eyes out. The series is urban fantasy and not too deep but provides the perfect escape and if you tell me the Hollows isn’t real, I just won’t believe you. George R.R. Martin has me convinced that winter is coming and Diana Gabaldon’s Brianna is alive and a grandmother in Scotland, I’m sure, so Cincinnati must have a Hollows and the Turn take you if you offer me a tomato. Bunny ears, kiss, kiss.

I’ve gotten lost in the four previous Hollows books, but For a Few Demons More stands out for two reasons. One, it’s just really well-crafted. Character growth, story arcs, plot twists are all executed professionally. It’s a pleasure to witness Ms. Harrison’s growth as a writer. Two, Kisten. Tragic. Kisten has been living in my thoughts and night dreams for two full days now. I’m not sure what it says about me that I feel more for a fictional character than certain family members. I blame the author for being so good. Or bad, in this case.

White Teeth by Zadie Smith is on my nightstand. I’ll start as soon as I get over Kisten. My friend recommended the book and as she has great taste, I look forward to the tale.

Rambling done.

Mrs. Palfrey Revisted and the Realities of Moll Flanders

2007-06-25T13:21:00.000-05:00

It’s a rare occurrence when a bibliophile like myself prefers a movie to a book. I can’t think the last time it happened.

Elizabeth Taylor is an incredible writer. She captures the absolute horror of the human aging process. Her execution of the English language is remarkable; her portrayal of feelings and motives is accurate. I have never been more depressed after reading a book. Nirvana summarizes it well: “All alone is all we are.”

I blame the movie, of course. As Cervantes said, and I paraphrase, we should see the world not as it is, but as it should be, and that’s just what the movie accomplishes. The viewer sees the world as it should be lived. Romantic, perhaps, but hopeful. And hopeful is inspiring.

I suppose if I’d read the book first, I would have abhorred the movie, because it did take liberties with the author’s intent. The entire mood of the book is erased. But in this case, I prefer wearing the rose-colored glasses.

Not so with the tale of Moll Flanders. Loved the book. Moll is a victim of the social injustice of the times but she survives amidst the nagging of her conscience and constant setbacks. Even during her most depraved hour when she finds herself feeling quite at home in Newgate Prison, she finds self-forgiveness and ultimate redemption. Defoe paints a gritty, horrible life for Moll, all too real, despite the happy ending, but it is Moll’s character, not luck or good manners, that sees her through to that ending. She is human, with many faults and just as many virtues. A very real character.

I’d looked forward to the movie version with Stockard Channing and Robin Wright Penn and went straight to the theater to see it instead of waiting for the video release as I usually do (this was many years ago). It was awful and missed the message of the book completely. Moll was portrayed as a virtuous girl-woman who was only brought to depravitity because of fate and evil designs on her person. She takes no responsibility for her failings.

Thank Providence, as Moll would say, for the Masterpiece Theatre release a few years later. Alex Kingston is Moll and Daniel Craig is her equal. This version captures the plot and essence of Defoe’s tale with only a few minor changes and is one of the few cases where a movie matches the brilliance of a book.

I’m off to watch "Mrs. Palfrey..." again. I’ve donated the book to the local library.

Best Coffee

2007-06-01T09:50:00.000-05:00

Check out Brownstone Beans for the most delicious coffee your home or cafe machine will ever brew. I'm totally addicted.

The Bonnie Prince

2007-05-28T09:41:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I have a new modern day hero. Besides Eddie Vedder.

Prince Charles.

Now, when I was a young girl, I eagerly awaited the fairytale wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana. In anticipation of the event, I’d revamped Barbie’s house into a palace and Barbie wore her white wedding dress nearly everyday. My brother’s Spiderman doll served as Prince Charles, and six Breyer horses pulled a shoebox coach. The day arrived and my mother and I woke up really early to watch the whole ceremony on television.

Over the years, I’ve had a cursory interest in the comings and goings of the Royal Family, my curiosity mostly satisfied with candy-coated descriptions and pictures in People or Hello! magazines but really, the fascination has always been about Diana. I never really paid attention to Prince Charles except to note a few facts. He owns a lot of castles. Sometimes, he wears a kilt. He likes to play polo. Seems to take time to smell the roses. And he makes cute kids.

It was news to me to hear about his environmental concerns and organic farming, not because it’s the latest trend but because it has been his true passion for twenty years or more. Imagine converting an entire estate to green. Or a royal prince of the old guard flying commercial. Many modern CEOs wouldn’t even consider that.

Of course, his critics berate him for not practicing what he preaches but I wonder what they have done to affect change?

Prince Charles is changing the world in baby steps. Given his means and status, of course, his baby steps seem like giant strides, but at least he’s trying. His example has inspired me to change my house’s light bulbs, and I’m slowly starting to become more aware of the vast amount of damage I alone cause the world simply by living a consumer lifestyle. It’s fairly frightening.

So, here’s to a great role model who is doing what he can to save the world. Just as a king should.

The Lusty Month

2007-05-01T19:09:00.000-05:00

It’s May. Peach tree blossoms, long walks, warm weather, grilled seafood, ice cream cones, and cake. Of the literary variety that is. My new book, Cake, a fun-filled fantasy romance about a woman who lands in the Land of Cake releases today from Wings ePress. To celebrate, I’ve posted a yummy contest on my website. Hope you stop by to enter it and read more about the book. In the meantime, here’s a quick excerpt for your May Day pleasure:

A slight smile played at Rune’s lips and he seemed relaxed. He acted as though they strolled through Brickbottom and that reassured her somewhat. Still, Breena’s gaze skittered to the edge of the wetlands, where something rustled in the cattails. She began to hum.

They entered the swamp with its towering trees, dead giants choked in webs of gray-green. Splashes of blue, will o’ the wisp, fired along the path and in the bracken. Thoughts of Dracula flit through her mind. She hummed louder.

“You’re going to start babbling in a minute, aren’t you?” Rune asked. “If you start singing, I will throw you in the swamp.”

“There are alligators in swamps, Rune, with big teeth and they move really fast. My parents took me to Louisiana when I was a kid and we went on a canoe ride through the swamps and they just sit there like fat lumps and grin and then they slither and there’s this thing called the loup-garou, probably a relative of Luke’s, but not so nice. I didn’t see one of course but it felt like it was out there waiting and--”

He stopped walking. “Fox cub?”

“Yeah?”

He took her by the shoulders and very slowly, leaned forward to touch her nose with his. He drew back and said, “I assure you that there are no alligators, swamp werewolves, or any evil creatures in Scar Burrow.”

“Oh yeah?” she said, looking over his shoulder at the horde of zombies advancing on them. “Then what about them?”

Procrastination...A List of Songs to Inspire Love Scenes

2007-04-21T18:13:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, Bryn Colvin, fellow author, hosted a theme chat on her Yahoo! book group to discuss “inspiration” for both readers and writers. Not surprisingly, many authors use music as inspiration. I’m one of those authors. I can look at a scene in any one of my books and tell you what music I was listening to at the time. Sometimes I’ll reference songs in my books and in the case of Kicking Sideways, a Benders song, “Blue Lightning,” inspired the story, but I listened to The Sisters of Mercy and Led Zeppelin while writing most of it.

Music is great inspiration when you are trying to set a particular mood for a scene. Bless iTunes because I have a playlist for any given mood: depression, fear, joy, romance, and melancholia. There are song lists for spirituality, atmosphere/weather, relaxation, and partying. Brilliant invention, is iTunes, for those with obsessive compulsive tendencies.

Music can be an especially useful tool when you have to write a sex scene and the love you feel for your hero is just not enough to block out daily life that keep you from getting in the mood. So, to procrastinate even further, here’s my list of songs to get you in the mood:

“Today” Jefferson Airplane
All of Pretty Hate Machine by Nine Inch Nails
“Skinny Dip” Zulus
“It Ain’t Like That” Alice in Chains
“Room a Thousand Years Wide” Soundgarden
“Driven Like the Snow” Sisters of Mercy
“Fix” Sisters of Mercy
“Jessie” Paw (sure, it’s a song about a boy and his lost dog, but it’s the way it’s sung)
“You Know You’re Right” Nirvana
“Bloodletting” Concrete Blonde
“Turnover” Fugazi
“Girl” Danzig
“Sex” Berlin (obviously!)
“Indian Summer” The Doors
“Five to One” The Doors
“Silvertone” Elbow
“When the Levees Break” Led Zeppelin
“Spacelord” Monster Magnet
“Mummers Dance” Loreena McKennit

On Inspiration and Procrastination...and Hot Men

2007-03-29T18:45:00.000-05:00

Whenever I contemplate a new book, the first step I have to take before writing is visualize my characters. As their personalities develop, I get a general blurry image of their physical attributes, but I rely on real images to fill out the contours. Sometimes, the physical inspiration is a real person or the memory of a person, but usually, I draw inspiration from celebrities.

Secondary characters are easy—a physical picture pops clearly into my mind or if it does not, I can easily find a photo of someone that fits my fuzzy mental image. Heroines are easy, as well. The actress Jennifer Ferrin, for example, was the physical inspiration for my last heroine, Breena Murphy, in Cake, A Fairy Tale.

It’s a scientific process – I sift and sort until I find the model with the physical attributes that I need.

This is not the case with my heroes. I cannot write until I am in lust with my hero and usually, the whole writing process begins because I have a such a crush on the hero that I simply must write or simply implode. Whatever plot ideas might be floating in my mind are then bent and twisted to suit the hero’s needs.

Crushes. Puppy love. Unrequited love. Nostalgia. Love that can never be. This is what inspires me to write. No real person fills the shoes of this heroic muse. It’s lust, pure and simple, and that entity snakes into various unattainable male forms that make me fall miserably in love.

My crushes change on a weekly basis so the hero of a book is sculpted by whomever that crush might be. Sometimes, my hero is inspired by that boy I had a crush on when I was sixteen – a memory of unrequited love, doubly unattainable. Sometimes, I conjure up my husband as he was in those college days – virile, godlike, untouchable. Most often, though, it’s a celebrity that captures my fancy.

There is a catch, though. The celebrity must be in character. It’s no good to have a crush on George Clooney because well, he’s human, and gets boogers and dandruff like the rest of us. So, I pine after fictions. Musicians fall into this character because onstage, they are fantasies. Onstage, Jim Morrison was a god; offstage…well…he probably didn’t shower much.

The point of this long-winded blog is not to discuss writing inspiration. Rather, it’s an exercise in procrastination from writing. I’m stuck. I cannot picture my hero. There is no focus for that muse of lust. In fact, there is no muse. I am crushless.

For me, cleaning the house and making lists serve as lovely procrastination mechanisms. Don’t feel like cleaning. So here I am making a list of all those celebrity character crushes that usually set me off into a writing frenzy. These are off the top of my head. Any additions to the list are most welcome, male or female.

And yes, I am a dork.

Eddie Vedder onstage, the Ten years, during MTV Unplugged
Sandman (okay so it’s a comic but when drawn properly, yum)
Voices: Jim Morrison, Michael Hutchence, Eddie Vedder, Chris Cornell, Bow Thayer, Jabe Beyer, Robert Plant, Glen Danzig, Layne Staley, Andrew Eldritch, to name a dozen
Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy in “Pride and Prejudice”
Dennis Quaid as Remy McSwain in “The Big Easy”
Viggo Mortensen as Walker Jerome in “A Walk on the Moon”
Laurence Olivier as Heathcliff in “Wuthering Heights”
Clive Owen as Arthur in “King Arthur”
Paul Newman as Hud Bannon in “Hud”
Viggo Mortensen as Aragorn, “Lord of the Rings”
Viggo Mortensen as Clay, “The Passion of Darkly Noon”
Daniel Craig as Jemmy, “The Fortunes and Misfortunes of Moll Flanders”
Daniel Craig as James Bond
Hugh Jackman as Wolverine, “The X-Men”
Tom Pelphrey as Jonathan Randall, “The Guiding Light”
Chris Cornell, “Outshined” video
Jude Law as Inman in “Cold Mountain”
Brooke McCarter as Paul the Vampire in “The Lost Boys”
Matthew McFadden as Hareton Earnshaw in the BBC’s “Wuthering Heights”

Next blog…lust inspiring songs for writing those sex scenes.