Musings of a Mad Hen

Freedom

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 17:56:00 +0000

For the past two days, I’ve had a nasty headache, the kind that produces nausea and an ability to move one’s head and as I am increasing (word choice is direct result of reading way too many Regency romances), there’s no remedy except the ever useless Tylenol and alternating heat and ice packs.

Last night was especially excruciating, and I went to bed at eight o'clock to rest somewhere between dream-filled sleep and pain. In one dream, Jon Stewart burst into my bedroom to announce in his bug-eyed stance, "The vampires were coming to fix your head!" and lo and behold, there in the doorway stood Edward Cullen. (This dream is clearly related to the fact that I had watched the charming Jon Stewart-Robert Pattinson interview earlier.). Unfortunately, my husband decided to come to bed at that moment, waking me up and chasing dear Edward away. Alas, I still have the headache.

Hopefully, the head pain will dissipate before the start of The Artist’s Way course I’m attending next week. This course is based on Julia Cameron’s book of the same name, which I’ve read before but could not find the willpower to complete the accompanying work. When I found a local course, I signed up to help better my writing.

Since registering, life has thrown me quite a few jock-powered dodgeballs and I realize that the writing, or the inability to write, is just a small symptom. The course, I think, is instead a tool to learn to live creatively, openly, without fear, without scar tissue. This seems to be a major theme in my life lately. Medical doctors, spiritual advisors of all faiths, non-fictional readings and strangely, all my fictional choices have thumped me over the head with the message to be open and aware. Perhaps E.M Forster says it best in A Room With a View: "On the other side of the eternal "Why?" there is a "Yes and a yes and a yes!" I'll let you know how it goes.

On the Bookshelf: various name your baby books; Diana Gabaldon’s An Echo in the Bone and Patti Smith’s Just Kids.

Eagerly Anticipating: Sunday’s Red Carpet extravaganza.

On Rabid Fans

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 19:16:00 +0000

I welcomed the New Year by watching “The Howling” and making no resolutions whatsoever. Huge mistake on both counts. My dreams were filled with shape-shifting weirdness and not in a cool Sam Merlotte sort of way. When my son cried in the middle of the night, I was convinced it was because he was transforming into a were baby and I panicked because I did not know how to help him. The lack of resolutions has proven to be my downfall as well. I am the soul of sloth these days and a fog has settled around my brain.

I don’t feel particularly guilty about this. Currently, I am planted firmly on the sofa in eager anticipation for tonight’s dinner of homemade gnocchi and meatballs with absolutely no vegetables, while I watch, yet again, the Colin Firth version of "Pride and Prejudice."

Speaking of Sam Merlotte (told you – mind rambly today – please refer to paragraph one), I grow steadily angrier at a percolating issue in the writing world, enough so that I need to pause dear Mr. Darcy and rant on behalf of writers, readers, and Art. I speak of the rabid fans, small in number but like any extreme group, destructive.

There are few authors whose books cause me to salivate in anticipation of a new release. I get so lost in their worlds that I dream about the characters at night. Sometimes, I am so reluctant for a book to end that I have to email the author to assure her that she is the best in hopes that she'll write the next installment that much quicker. Such is my imagined power as a fan of Karen Marie Moning's Fever series and Charlaine Harris’s Sookie Stackhouse mysteries.

Now these books will never grace the halls of Harvard. The tales aim to entertain and they never, ever fail. The characters in these novels may as well be real figures rather than denizens of the page.

As an avid reader, I, too sometimes forget that Scarlett never plowed the red earth of Tara, that Samantha and Michael Taggert don’t really live in a brownstone in NYC, that Lily Bart never overdosed in a seedy room in that same city. I cringe when Emma snaps at Miss Bates as if it were my own transgression and my morals are offended when Rowan Mayfair cheats on Michael with Lasher. Sometimes, the deaths of characters (sob! Kisten!) affect me more than the death of a great-aunt with whom I’ve been acquainted all my life. (I probably shouldn’t admit that in public.)

Yet I know, like most fans, that the characters are not real and I come down to earth eventually to commune with the real world, anxious for the next book, but basking in the glow of a well delivered piece of fiction as I get on with daily life. We are, ultimately, grateful that the author shares her gift with us and takes us away from it all in true Calgon fashion (yes, I am really dating myself here), no matter what befalls our characters.

Unfortunately, there are some fans, and I hesitate to call them such as psychotic freak jobs may be the better term, that never do come back from the clouds. Instead, these fans invest their entire happiness in fictional characters. If the outcome of a book is not to their liking, they will go out of their way to insult and terrorize the author as if said author owes them something.

I suppose one should feel pity for such pathetic people but I cannot. As a writer and a fan of writing, I just can’t condone such enemies of art. Such people do not deserve the pleasure of reading.

Both Ms. Harris and Ms. Moning have been compelled to defend themselves to such “fans” in their blogs. Ms. Moning addressed accusations that she condones rape because she allowed such a fate for Mac, and Charlaine Harris wrote a letter defending her latest Sookie novel, Dead and Gone, to readers who were offended by the “murders” of pregnant “women” (there was only one) and general bitterness that their beloved Sookie has become “foul-mouthed and mean,” not sugar sweet and compliant as she always has been.

Every one is entitled to an opinion. And it is a real downer when you spend nearly twenty dollars on a hardcover that disappoints. But the reader has a choice and only has oneself to blame for gambling on a purchase. However, the choice for these fans is not between purchasing and library or not reading at all. Nor are the arguments about the quality of writing. These fans miss the point of writing altogether. Who condones rape? Who condones murder? I certainly didn’t feel pleasure while reading Mac’s rape. I was horrified. But I didn’t slam the book down and exclaim, “Karen Marie Moning condones rape! I shall never read her again and I’ll write her a letter telling her so!”

These so-called fans are so wrapped up in a weird emotional state, believing that the author owes them, that these characters are “family” (really!), that they should probably be institutionalized with women who believe Mr. Darcy fathered their offspring. (Don't look at me like that!)

Their craziness is acceptable if they keep it to themselves. Instead, they lash out at the authors and therefore, at Art, which is a gift from the gods, or God, the Muse, the Universe, Light or whatever divine form in which you believe, and therefore must be defended at all costs. That the author has to waste time arguing against such ignorance infuriates me. So here I am, arguing on their behalf, albeit not well (brain fog, remember).

Because the authors also have a choice. The author can serve her ego or she can serve the story. Free will versus Fate. Serve the self or serve the muse. Play God or submit to God. Sometimes, the latter choice isn’t the popular one but it is the only choice that is true to Art. One might get a grand story by playing God with characters and there is absolutely nothing wrong about going that path, but when an author allows the Divine to intervene, ah! The characters grow and evolve and dare I say it? They become real.

Now let’s look at the accusations in question.

Artistically speaking, Moning’s rape was the only option for Mac. The girl had to be brought to the lowest point of human existence in order to evolve into a warrior for humanity. If the author had allowed Mac to slay her would-be rapists, Mac would have stayed somewhere between spoiled girl and arrogant woman. If she had killed her, then she'd have to bring her back to life and Joss Whedon's Buffy has already done that. Besides, as Whedon reveals, surviving death is easy. Surviving rape is not. If Moning had opted for the easy way out, then the story, as an artistic medium, would have failed. The story would be unremarkable.

Nor does Charlaine Harris condone the slaughter of pregnant women because one is murdered in her book. The character had to go. To keep her or her offspring alive would have dragged the series down. The murder set the plot in motion. Harris made the only choice to serve her story.

Further, Dead and Gone is the best installment of the series thus far because Sookie does decline in character. For nine books, Sookie has been used, abused and confused and she faces it all with good cheer and kindness. This time, she loses nearly everything, hatred surrounds her, and she has to contend with quite a few revelations. Her faith slips. She is angry. Her easy ability to forgive is hard to find. And it’s about bloody time. She must change to evolve and sometimes, going through hell is the only way to grow. How much better will this end tale be when Sookie finds redemption after the fire? Brava to Ms. Harris for serving her story well!

There is probably no getting through to the rabid fans who, dissatisfied with their own lives, take revenge on the creator of the only “real life” they have. In taking no responsibility for self, they attack, condemn and blame. Enough. Get a life. Find religion. Use your vitriol to fight for those less fortunate than yourselves, as do the heroines you say you worship. If you can’t open your hearts enough to do that, then just go away. These authors owe you nothing. They no doubt work harder than you do to serve something greater than themselves. We are lucky to be a part of the fallout, if we so choose. If you don’t like it, don’t read it. And if you think it could be better, then write your own book. Otherwise, if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all.

Now leave me alone. Mr. Darcy and I have a hot date.

On the Bookshelf: A whole bunch of Mary Balogh's romances. She makes me smile. The Echo Maker by Richard Powers.

On the iPod: The "New Moon" soundtrack. Over and over and over again.

Holidays and Books

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 01:45:00 +0000

Christmas possesses unparalleled magic and nothing rivals Halloween for mystical energy, but Thanksgiving is just plain old fun, a breather in the bullet train of a year, which is marked for me, these days, by the growth of my three-year old son and the realization that in no time he will have turned into a stinky, awkward monosyllabic teenage werewolf who will not want to spend any holiday with me.

I force myself to remember this future alienation when he chatters at me from 6:30am until 7:30pm and I have to bite my tongue from screaming at him to shut up for one blessed minute. As I write, he is desperate to know why the zippered cushions face the back of the couch instead of the front. “Because it looks better, “ I mumble. “Why?” he asks. My brain begins to throb.

I’m afraid I’m not a very attentive mother. I don’t take many pictures and there are no pencil markings on door trims to measure height increments. I have noticed, however, amongst the chatter, how very polite he is. This is due to my husband and mother. Like I said, I’m inattentive.

I asked him if he wanted a snack and his reply, “No, but thank you for offering, Mama. That was nice of you.” As my jaw dropped to the floor, he proceeded to ram his truck into the newly made train track while screaming, “Bash! Bam! Crash!” My little Shiva.

The Creator-Destroyer, while he tests my lack of patience, is the object of my thankfulness and the reminder of all that’s good and whole in this world, which prompts me to think of The Road, just dawning in theaters and a topic of discussion over our turkey and apple pie.

The novel, The Road, portrays the absolute worst side of humanity and deepest despair that a human can suffer. Ultimately, it is a child who redeems all of humanity, a child that “carries the fire”, a child who is “God’s word.” Humans can and do shine, and the small moments count more than the larger portrait of devastation.

Thanksgiving is a perfect example of this. Yes, in the larger picture the first feast marks the beginning of the end for native culture, yet in the bleak landscape of this chapter of American history, the day itself represents promise, peace and hope. Thanksgiving represents one tribe risking the unknown to help another, very different tribe over the course of a year and the meal they chose to share together at harvest end.

Their peaceable gathering is a small moment in human history, but there are many such small moments, and these should be celebrated as often as possible. So when I look across the table at my parents and son, sitting side by side, and all the rest of my family that luxuriates in too much food and hearty laughter, I am grateful for all those small moments in human history that led us to Thursday’s bounty.

My jeans, however, are not at all grateful. They groaned when I tried to fasten them this morning and the button popped completely after an afternoon of gluttony at Longfellow’s Wayside Inn. Yummy food aside, the old inn is one of my favorite spots.

European castles and Greek ruins may be soul stirring, but the youthful at three hundred years old inn captures my heart. There’s nothing better than a well-kept, creaky rambling inn with fire in the hearth and a window overlooking rolling pastures and fieldstone walls. And after dining, I obeyed a long held desire to explore the other history of Longfellow’s “Hobgoblin Hall.”

I finally gave in and booked Room Nine for my birthday next year. The ghost of Jerusha Howe haunts this space, in search of her long-lost love. Since Jerusha prefers men, I’m dragging my husband with me as a lure. I’ll just hide in the corner all night. With a camera. And a pot of coffee.

On The Bookshelf: Just finished the Twilight Saga, reluctantly. I tried reading the first book a year ago and did not care for the writing. Bella’s character seemed shallow and the dialogue too stilted. My opinion was further bolstered after watching the movie, which kept my attention because the scenery was so pretty and I liked Kristen Stewart in the movie version of Laurie Halse Anderson’s Speak.

Then he soundtrack for New Moon came out. It rocks. Every song. So, I concluded that if the soundtrack is that spectacular, then the books must be pretty great, too. I read them. All four. They are not great, but I was addicted anyway. It’s been a couple of weeks since I closed Breaking Dawn and I’ve finally decided that perhaps I’ve been unfair in my judgment of the saga. They read more like myths and fables, akin to Arthurian legends or Norse tales. When read from that view, they really are engrossing. A new mythology.

Still, I am back to reading my favorite YA author, Sarah Dessen, who masters honest dialogue and striking characterization. Her latest, Along for the Ride is as wonderful as all her others, and the protagonist’s discovery of a self both alike and apart from her parents is particularly well written. I particularly like Dessen’s description of Auden’s sibling because it perfectly explains my own brother: “But then he was gone, just like that. Before I could ask him who exactly Ramona was, or what had happened in Amsterdam. That was my brother, the living, breathing To Be Continued.”

Also just finished Brad Kessler’s Goat Song, a beautiful tale about the author’s new venture and the spiritual journey he happens upon along the way.

Starting Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book. Influenced by Kipling's The Jungle Book, this book, of course, is just as riveting and smooth as all of his other reads.

Just Netflixed: I was in the mood for an old black and white Thanksgiving night so I randomly chose Holiday, a 1938 film with Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn, expecting to be entertained. However, this wise, relevant film with its witty, rapid-fire and necessary dialogue, portrayal of human despair and desire, and depth of characters that could have easily been stereotypes happily surprised me. The film is about being trapped, physically or emotionally or both, something that every one of us experiences to some degree at some point during life. The stakes are high and that the viewer cannot see how the protagonists will ever escape entrapment and find happiness. The film decides that freedom is both a state of mind and a matter of conviction and as a result, the viewer feels even more pity for the one character that doesn’t realize this by the end of the film.

And speaking of entrapment, I am most of the way through Season One of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. What can I say? I’m a willful slave for romantic tension of the Sully variety.

Samhain

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 17:29:00 +0000

Time to visit crumbling graves, spark up Old Jack, pull the velvet drapes against the goblins, drink some sage tea while nibbling on pumpkin walnut bread, call up the dead, and slip in some "Arsenic and Old Lace" for the evening. The best time of year.

Twilights

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 19:06:00 +0000

The future's uncertain
and the end is always near.
The Doors

Last Sunday, rainy and cold, was one of those perfect days when it felt just right to be trapped inside with a turkey roasting in the oven, an apple pie cooling on the counter, and an old black and white movie on the television. At my father’s recommendation, I watched “Devotion,” a biography of the Brontës, although somehow, I doubt Charlotte Brontë was as gorgeous as Olivia de Havilland.

Although fictionalized, the movie did capture the individual personalities of the four siblings and what struck me the most is how practical Emily was compared to the somewhat passionate, tortured Charlotte. I had always assumed the opposite.

The film prompted me to investigate its accuracy and so I picked up Juliet Barker’s The Brontës: A Life in Letters, which is a chronological compilation of the Brontës letters and journal entries. Fascinating. And shows, except for fabricating a romance for Emily, that “Devotion” wasn’t too far off in describing the personalities and events of this brilliant quartet whose lives were tragic only because they ended far too soon.

The whole book was a delight, but the parallel between Charlotte and Branwell caught my interest. Both struggled with the desire to write. Charlotte, at one point, laments that she is thirty and has done nothing with her life. Her imagination is crippling, and she sinks into a deep depression. Likewise, Branwell is depressed and knows that writing would save him but “the almost hopelessness of bursting through the barriers of literary circles, and getting a hearing among publishers, make me disheartened and indifferent: for I cannot write what be thrown, unread, into a library fire.”

And what writer hasn’t felt like that? I know I do. But I also know it’s an excuse to be lazy. So Branwell drinks and causes trouble for his family. Charlotte, on the other hand, spies Emily’s poetry and rallies to work to get her writing published, despite rejection after rejection, and Emily and Anne did the unthinkable in literary circles – they paid to get published.

The saddest part for me was that Emily never knew that her “strange” work, panned by most critics, finally appreciated for its sheer genius two years after her death, is now once again on the bestseller list, beloved by “Twilight” fans everywhere. And yet another version of the movie is being made, although I am sure this one, too, will fail to capture the novel. So far, the best one, in my opinion is the 1998 Orla Brady version, although I love the mood of the Laurence Olivier film and the cruelty of the recent Tom Brady movie, despite the actor’s resemblance to Marilyn Manson.

One of my college professors claimed that Wuthering Heights is the most perfectly constructed book ever written. There are no mistakes. Stevie Davies Heretic corroborates this in that she shows the cyclical structure of the work: Wuthering Heights is the womb, Peniston Crag is the father – Heathcliff and Cathy are two halves of the being that is born to this union of man-made structure and nature. Free will separates them and as a result Heathcliff loses his center and Cathy loses her self.

Nature finally takes over at by the end and corrects free will by uniting Catherine Linton, Cathy’s daughter, and Hindley Earnshaw, Heathcliff’s foster son, establishing Catherine Earnshaw as she was meant to be. At least, that’s the essence of Davies’s criticism, if my memory is accurate, which is doubtful these days.

Whether or not my assessment of Davie’s theory is accurate, I maintain that Wuthering Heights celebrates true love, although not the romantic love of Jane Eyre or other romances celebrating Byronic heroes. Despite the happy coupling at the end, which is the natural course of the theme, Wuthering Heights is far from a romance novel. (Nor is Heathcliff, for that matter, a Byronic hero. If you read Alice Hoffman’s Here on Earth, you’ll see Heathcliff through modern eyes. He’s an asshole, pure and simple. )

The Emily Bronte that Charlotte describes, resolute and unflinching, was far beyond romantic love, or any human reflection of love, always transitory. Rather, Emily Bronte was on to the designs of the very universe, far above the surface concerns of humans. As Cathy herself puts it, her "love is as elemental as the rocks beneath the earth," or however that line reads. Humans are only subjects in her book, there because Nature put them there. Wuthering Heights is about the kind of love that fuels the universe and perhaps even made it.

Love, The-Power-That-Is, the natural order of the world, always wins out despite Hindley’s cruel subjugation of Heathcliff, Cathy’s self betrayal, Heathcliff’s violent and twisted machinations, society’s preenings. Ultimately, heather will bloom, the sun will peek out over the moors, humans will perish, leaving no ghosts to mar the present, and gentleness sand respect will destroy hate in the end.

On the iPod: "Theme from Wuthering Heights" by Alfred Newman’s followed by Kate Bush's ethereal "Wuthering Heights."

On the Nightstand: No, not Wuthering Heights. Not Twilight either.

Crush of the Week: Surprise. Not Healthcliff, but certainly not Edgar Linton, either. My husband caught my fancy for a while, but I’m on to a creation of my own this week. He’s not fully formed yet: a slow smile, a hint of trouble, a dash of vengeance, a scarred heart, and a pinch of music by Kings of Leon. Let's hope he springs fully formed from my forehead.

On Charity: Along with Smile Train, this is a link to my chosen cause, Feeding America. Thank you, Pearl Jam.

Supermodel for a Day

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 12:52:00 +0000

Not a fan of reality TV. The entire genre repulses me in every way but mainly because these shows seem to cater to the depraved side of humanity with no promise of redemption and hope.

There is one show, however, that stops my remote in its tracks. America’s Top Model. No arguments here, please, about how the fashion industry perpetuates the evils of patriarchy, superficiality, etc. That is a debate for another day and not one that you’ll see here.

The drama and emotional upheavals are just as annoying here as in all the other reality shows, but as an author, I see many parallels between the work of a model and the creation of a fictional character. And Tyra Banks offers another perspective on the supermodel stereotype – professionalism and compassion rather than self-important, backstabbing anorexic she-cats who perpetuate the myth that the industry is yet another sigh of the degradation of women.

Aside from that, modeling is hard work.

And now, I have first hand experience of being a model. I work as an office manager by day (a sometimes writer by night), and one of our key vendors for my day job is launching a client-based campaign to promote their services. Yours truly was chosen as a spokesperson for this advertisement.

I’m the type that would choose reading over socializing and I’m the type that chooses reading over socializing and while this abject fear of people has lost me many opportunities, I often take the easy road and retreat behind my own four walls. The thought of posing in front of a camera? “Working it?” In front of all those people? No way. But before I could say no, a yes was out of my mouth, and for once I didn’t chicken out.

So the day of the shoot arrives and I am showering at 4am to meet the crew at the mosquito infested swamp-ridden stretch of land about twenty minutes from my house. The production manager, Janet, took me in hand, led me to a table laden with food and at first light, Deb led me to wardrobe (the back of her SUV), followed by a visit with Kathleen for my makeup. This was very fun and glamorous for me, but I noticed, as the photographers and art director, and various VIPs arrived, waiting, for their “model” to start the day, how utterly co-dependent this production team must be for a successful shoot. Each person is vital from Janet to the photographer to the model.

The latter must be professional and egoless, alert and malleable, both physically and mentally. The team said I did a great job, and I learned a lot and had a blast, but a model I am not. Too concerned with what other people think and unable to muster emotion on demand, there is no way I could do this career even if I had the looks for it, but I came away grateful to walk in Giselle’s shoes (thankfully not high heels!) and with a certain confidence that I did not have before, proof of which came when the Starbucks clerk told me I looked just like Julia Roberts. I may have channeled her laugh at that moment because I am not being modest when I say I look nothing like her. When I took that mask off, I was me again.

A couple of days later, I had lunch with a high school acquaintance. Way back then, she was coupled with My First Love, always unrequited, but instead of jealousy, I looked up to her, to them. They were the epitome of punk rock love, the Tim Burton prom king and queen, and she was this pixie-punk alternative to everything that was bland about the All American Kid, the Veronica amidst the Heathers, the Wednesday Addams of the halls. She taught me that I didn’t have to fit into the mainstream that made me so very uncomfortable and so we donned the clothes of the alternative subculture.

Now, we both present a different face to the world. Inside, I am still that goth-grunge-geek-goddess, but outside? Who cares? It doesn’t matter. Over lunch, we talked about identity and how it’s okay to morph into different masks, that one sometimes has to in order to survive. Being who you are is sometimes not being who you are. In her case, she wore the punk persona as a suit of armor; I wore it because I never did feel comfortable in anything but my Dad’s army pants and a pair of Doc’s. We were our own brand of supermodel back then. Now, we both feel lucky to understand that “each one of us is a brain... and an athlete…and a basket case…a princess…and a criminal.” (John Hughes, The Breakfast Club.)

Sometimes, this getting old thing isn’t so bad. But it sure would help to have a cook and wardrobe and makeup every morning.

On the Nightstand: In the Fall by Jeffrey Lent and a re-read of The Road because the latter is just that good.

In Queue: Karen Marie Moning’s long-awaited Dreamfever. Sookie, Sookie, and more Sookie. And maybe it’s the promise of autumn in the air, poking its head out of the humidity, but I have an inkling to visit Hogwarts again.

On the iPod: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. And Eddie Vedder.

Crush of the Week: Vampire Eric. And, um, well, yeah…Eddie Vedder.

Love and Heroin

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 14:34:00 +0000

Take away love, and our earth is a tomb.
Robert Browning

In between staving the fulfillment of my two latest addictions, which is the Netflixing of Season Two of Burn Notice and Season One of True Blood (Vampire Bill being the latest boy toy of choice in my middle-aged brain), I’ve been – gasp! – writing, inspired by the fact that North Korea just may make good on their threat, a sharp reminder that life is too short to whittle away time while waiting for the Muse to strike.

So I’ve returned to my notes for Avery and Jeremy’s story, another Cakian tale, jotted ideas for some children's books, penned some eulogies, and am writing some fiction and non-fiction tales inspired by a day spent above stormy Scituate seas with my sister, also an author. (Apologies for the blatant use of alliteration, but the fact remains that I was in Scituate and the sea was stormy.) We are determined to be on Oprah and between us probably have enough stories to get us there. If only Vampire Bill would stop interfering!

Mostly, though, I’ve been on a reading marathon, which includes much spiritual based non-fiction – Caroline Myss, Eckhart Tolle, Neale Donald Walsch and Don Miguel Ruiz, plus a lot of great fiction. Of course, the Sookie Stackhouse series is included in this list and some Megan Hart, who packs emotional punches throughout her simmering tales.

But last night I finished Alice Hoffman’s The Story Sisters. Ms. Hoffman is probably my favorite modern writer. She sees life through the same glasses that I wear and manages to capture that worldview with a pen. This book particularly resonates for me as the tale is about three sisters and the blood ties between them. Fundamentally, though, this is a book about true love. Not the romantic kind, although there is that, but Ultimate Love, that which fuels the universe, and that which saves us.

And this morning I finished Grunge is Dead: An Oral History of the Seattle Music Scene, which was a rare biography/history because it wasn’t written second-hand by a biased fan or outsider. Instead, the author, Greg Plato, compiled first-hand interviews and uses these comments to compile the book’s timeline, which takes us back to the seventies and brings us up to the so-called “grunge” explosion. This is a fascinating history for music fans in general and lovers of the Seattle music scene in particular. A worthy work and it’s a shame Chris Cornell of Soundgarden fame or the remaining Nirvana members did not participate. The book reads like a novel, craft-wise, with build-up, climax, dark moment and redemption, and the last quarter of the book is riveting, as dark material always is.

Like Elv in The Story Sisters, so many of the characters in Grunge deal with heroin addiction. Unfortunately, these are real people, and while the world knows of the tragic demise of Kurt Cobain, this book delves a little deeper into the influence of the music industry and heroin on his choice to end his life. The book continues with a chronicle Layne Staley’s slow death, heroin again, through the eyes of his friends and mother. All mothers should read these chapters. The book makes it clear that drug addiction can happen to ANYONE and maybe just being prepared for such a fate can help a parent prevent it. I don’t know. Incredibly sad.

I’ll never forget Rush Limbaugh’s laughter at Kurt Cobain’s death. How he stated, “All drug users should be put to death.” I was disappointed when he became addicted to drugs himself and did not meet such an end, but perhaps he is more compassionate now as a result of his own experience. I doubt it, but one can hope.

Both books, though, leave one with the absolute certainty that love does conquer all, most obviously in Hoffman’s tale, as fiction has a way of tying themes together in a tight little bow, but Grunge finds this truth as well, culminating in the professional success and spiritual growth of many of the survivors of that time period.

On the iPod: “Season of the Witch,” Donovan.

On the Nightstand: Intrusions by Ursula Hegi

Cornering Baby

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Wed, 25 Mar 2009 00:04:00 +0000

All creativity has been sucked away from me. I cannot stop watching “The L Word.” I’ve just started season three. With six seasons, there’s far to go before I sleep, or read, or write, or think. Entire series on DVD are dangerous. I’ve become a child at the cookie jar with no parent to restrain my indulgence. I have become “The Garden of Earthly Delights.”

I did take a breather Sunday afternoon to hop on the T and spend three hours at The Opera House in yet more pursuit of mindless entertainment. Dirty Dancing. Sure, there have been some bad reviews, mainly from those who expect their theater to be high art or at least shockingly low brow. One of the favorite digs seems to label the production “theater for suburbanites.” There is some truth to the scorn, but who cares? All I know is that I grinned like a loon the entire time, never got bored, and squealed when Johnny strode down that aisle to mount the stage and claim his Baby with the most famous line in movie history besides “Frankly, my dear…”

I had the time of my life.

Many critics have argued that the production is not worthy of Broadway since it is, word for word, the movie. Even the actors resembled the movie actors in both looks and mannerisms. And thank the stars for that. Can you imagine Baby and Johnny singing to each other in standard Broadway musical fashion? Egads.

The production is perfect as it is, providing its guests with the romance novel experience of highs, lows, and promise of never-ending happiness. There was enough great singing and dancing, of course, and fun stage props to give the audience a live theater experience.

Additions to the movie script were most welcome and made me wish that the movie could be redone with its original cast to incorporate the deeper insights into character as well as the political and social environment of 1963 beyond the confines of Kellerman’s Resort. Subtle conversations about Freedom Riders, civil rights, and musical interludes of political folk songs added richness to the story’s theme. The additions also let us get to know Mrs. Houseman as a female force rather than the arm candy mother we saw in the movie, as well as provide more insight into Johnny and Baby’s relationship.

Even minor characters like Vivian’s husband (so clueless in the movie) and Neil Kellerman become three-dimensional in the stage version. There is closure for all, even these minor characters, and the audience gets a hint about what happens to Johnny and Baby after the curtain falls.

The enhancements succeed in that they emphasize the original premise of the story: do the right thing, fight against injustice, and do not judge others by your own narrow viewpoint. Dirty Dancing, entertaining as it is, reminds us that it’s wise to remember Neale Donald Walsch’s message of “God only sends angels.”

Quote of the Day: Got to find a brightness in the soul / Not look outside to find out where you are / Or you’ll never be satisfied / Until you make possessions of the stars. (“All Come True” by World Party)

Better Late Than Never

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Mon, 16 Feb 2009 18:07:00 +0000

New Year’s Resolutions. Buy local. Smile. Stand in the sun. Wear sunscreen. Walk in someone else’s slippers, then be happy when you find your own again. Listen. Judge no-one. Protect your own. Eat broccoli. Gobble ice cream. Laugh. Help your neighbors. Plant a lilac bush. Smile. Be excellent to your friends. Pick your family. Pray for all. Ask why. Embrace the inner hobbit. Smile. Learn. Play. Accept. Be. Hear live music. Appreciate your partner. Turn off the TV. Jump rope. Smile.

Just Finished: Mark Perry's Grant & Twain, An American Friendship. Highly recommended. A short, detailed portrait of the friendship and life correlations between Mark Twain and Ulysses S. Grant. Humble and uplifting. Interesting read for writers. Grant is my new hero.

On the Bookshelf: Charles de Lint's Widdershins.

On iTunes: Kings of Leon.

Not Much Has Changed...

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 17:20:00 +0000

Wall Street owns the country.
It is no longer a government of the people, by the people,
and for the people, but a government of Wall Street,
by Wall Street and for Wall Street.
Mary Ellen Lease, 1890

Howard Zinn quotes a larger excerpt from Lease's speech in A People's History, but this sentence sums it up. Don't think I need to comment except that there is a horrible comfort in knowing things never change. The truth frees one to follow other pursuits.

Four Score and Seven Years Ago...

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Sat, 27 Dec 2008 16:19:00 +0000

Christmas night. Finally home after a day of feasting on homemade raviolis and meatballs, much laughter, and way too many gifts. The city is empty and quiet. Husband off playing Left for Dead. Son dreaming of his new train set. So I clear a swath of torn rapping paper to sit in the cold leather chair by the pine with its gumdrop lights and new hedge ornaments (one for father, one for son), and finally get to finish Tried by War: Abraham Lincoln as Commander in Chief by James M. McPherson.

Great read. McPherson focuses on Lincoln’s presidency, specifically investigating Lincoln’s journey from a man with no military experience and how he becomes a great military and inspirational leader as a result of the Civil War.

I particularly found interesting the moral, political and strategic gumbo that is the issue of slavery. We are taught, in high school, that the sole reason for the Civil War was slavery. This is not altogether true, although slavery had been a thorn in America’s big toe since before the Revolution.

At the start of the Civil War, Lincoln’s only goal was to maintain the Union. If ending slavery would preserve the nation, he’d do that, but if keeping slavery would save the States, then he’d keep the institution, regardless of his personal beliefs. As he grows in his role as Commander in Chief, his political/moral/strategic management of the war changes. Midway through the campaign, emancipation becomes a reason for continuing war and by the fourth year, the permanent liberation of slaves is a requirement for peace, which Lincoln will not sacrifice, even if the decision ruins him. Honor and morality guide him.

The book is not a light read, but the last third reads like any good thriller despite that the reader already knows how it all ends (one hopes so, anyway). As I read the epilogue, which begins with Lincoln’s murder, I even got a bit teary that the world lost such a leader and I wonder, as many have, what this country would be like today had Lincoln lived to lead in peacetime.

New Favorite Author: Laurie Halse Anderson (www.writerlady.com).

Remember Pearl Harbor

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Sun, 07 Dec 2008 18:43:00 +0000

This little blog o’mine tends to the light and fluffy, despite the fact that I take my frivolity seriously. After all, I rarely venture outside my world of music, books, romance, and um, potty training. Today, however, I emerge from a bed in which I got very little sleep because I watched Body of War yesterday evening and grew angrier and angrier until the bedside alarm blared. So today I go from Mad (as in slightly off-kilter) Hen to Mad (as in furious) Hen.

Body of War is a documentary that follows the life of one American veteran, Tomas Young, after his return from Iraq. He joined after 9/11 to fight terrorists hiding in Afghanistan but was instead sent to Iraq where he was shot and paralyzed almost immediately. His story is peppered with footage from the 2002 Senate hearings to decide whether or not to give the President authority to go to war.

A part of me hopes that in October 2002, President Bush was a victim of lies, that he was duped like the rest of us. His war-mongering would not be excusable, as stupidity isn’t an excuse for anyone, especially the leader of the free world, but it comforts me more than believing he willingly lied to start a war that has killed millions of Iraqi civilians and has left thousands of our American soldiers dead or maimed, and the ruined return home to substandard care.

I’m not a leftist. Nor am I right-ring. I don’t get people who only listen to liberal media, just as I don’t get people who only listen to Fox News and Jay Severin. One-sided news reporting only results in more of that “I’m right and you are wrong” egotistical behavior that gets us far from Truth. Both sides have valid points and sometimes one side is more accurate than the other, but real truth is somewhere in between.

The Senate majority used the arguments that Saddam was evil, that Iraq was singularly harboring terrorists, and that Saddam was growing an arsenal of weapons to vote to authorize the President to start a war. They rushed into the decision, feeding the America visions of an Apocalypse if we didn’t choose to invade a country that did not invade us. And then the President justified that war in Jesus’s name. Do I need to point out the obvious correlation here?

I believe the truth here is that Iraq had little to do with 9/11. Reasons...Saddam? Definitely needed to go away. But he could have been taken out by a sniper. Why torture the very people he tortured? Weapons of mass destruction? Even Bush admits there were none. Harboring terrorists? No doubt. But every single country in this world is harboring terrorists, including America.

Tomas Young was ready and willing to fight terrorists because they attacked us and our home needed defending. However, he began to question why he was sent to Iraq, where he was surrounded by women and children. Why was he invading a country that did not invade us?

And why, after following the President's orders, did he return, wounded, left to substandard care at Walter Reed, to be already forgotten by that same President, like so many veterans before him?

I was pushed over the edge into full outrage when the documentary arrived at the 2005 White House Correspondents Dinner where President Bush spoofed his claim that Iraq harbored weapons of mass destruction (“Where are those weapons? They must be here somewhere…” he mutters as he peers under a tablecloth.) This self-deprecation parody gets many a cheer from his bejeweled audience in between sips of champagne and nibbles of delicacies, but when the camera cuts to Tomas Young, body broken, watching from home, when the camera pans over the legions of mothers who have lost their sons and daughters to this war, if the viewer of this documentary does not feel absolute disgust in our politicians and in ourselves for not seeing through the garbage these senators and representatives spouted, then there is something morally wrong with the viewer.

The shining light through this documentary was Senator Robert Byrd, whom I believe was once a Grand Master in the Klan, itself a terrorist organization. Like any wel-crafted character in literature, Senator Byrd turned to Light, denounced his Dark past, and now fights for truth, justice, and the American way. Right-wingers will call him a hypocrite, no doubt, but this is a man who on the Senate floor, implores all Americans to stand up and speak out against invading a country that did not attack us and giving power to kill to a single man when his reasons for killing aren't all that clear.

Too late. But not too late to prevent it again. Every American should re-read the words of our Founding Fathers. Every American should see this documentary. It is hard to watch, partly because Tomas Young is laid bare, body and soul, partly because it is sometimes hard to see past personalities and egos to listen to the story being told, but mostly because of the realization that politicians control the world – and we let them.

I suspect Rush Limbaugh and his ilk will mock this work, calling it “Body of Lies,” left-wing propaganda and unfortunately, most of his followers will agree without even bothering to check it out for themselves. This is unfortunate. I believe that all sides need to be considered before choosing to follow a politician, whether that leader is a Bush or an Obama. Many believe not supporting one’s President is unpatriotic. I disagree. If one follows anyone blindly, without one questioning what that leader spouts, whether that leader is a politician, celebrity, or your priest, then one is going against every principle upon which this country was founded. And that is unpatriotic.

And back to the Fluffernutter…

On The Big Screen: Just saw Let the Right One In, a vampire flick without, thankfully, none of the romantic overtones that seem to glut every vampire tale in modern popular fiction. The movie is sad, mostly, and disturbing, but it has moments of humor, joy, horror, and I found myself inwardly cheering at the end where the bullies get what they deserve. In essence, though, this is less of a vampire tale than it is a story about the intricacies of human relationships and what draws people together.

In this case two very lonely beings find each other. At the point in time, it is clear that the two love each other, but one wonders if it is a healthy love, one that will bring out the best in each other, or an enabling co-dependency where he enables her to reenact the past 300 years over and over again and where she feeds his serial killer obsession. All in all, the movie is a little long, the story tragic, but worth a viewing.

On the Nightstand: Sarah Dessen's The Truth About Forever. This woman can write.

On the iPod: The Ramones “Today Your Love, Tomorrow the World" and "Bonzo Goes to Bitburg."

Frost Upon These Cigarettes

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 01:34:00 +0000

"But all my trouble so far has come from being the little control freak I am, deciding who should hear what when and trying to control other people’s emotions by what I say. It’s become clearer and clearer it’s just disrespectful to not let people deal with things in a straightforward manner. When I’m lying on that bed on my last day, I want a clean slate."
From Deadline by Chris Crutcher

Okay, so I picked up a few young adult novels at the library because I’ve been doing some heavy reading lately and need something light, and romance just isn’t cutting it. Silly me. I’d forgotten that in many cases, YA novels are more hard-hitting honest and heavy than anything – fiction or non – out there.

I read Deadline. The story is your typical adolescent coming-of-age tale in which said teen questions the meaning of life and the existence of God, and sees that the truths he’s been taught all his life aren’t, in fact, the whole truth. This novel rises to the top of the heap in that Crutcher actually delivers the answers and also attains the heights in his craft that all writers strive to reach.

The standard YA theme is different here, however, because Ben, the hero, has a year to live. He decides against treatment and divulges his secret to no-one. Instead, he opts to strive to be the best human he can be, physically, emotionally and spiritually. He lives each day dangerously but not recklessly. He is desperate to live, not to die. He sets fear aside, seeking truth, by playing football, and by daring to love.

While on this path, he discovers Malcolm X and as a result, chooses to show the world that his sleepy Idaho town is bigoted. By exposing racism, aka truth, he hopes to stop this manmade disease, to make his small world a more compassionate place.

There is no right or wrong here. Crutcher’s gift is that of an unbiased journalist – he lets his characters speak their own truths and the reader sees that no person or situation is black or white, good or bad, just or unjust. We are one.

The very white, middle class hero and his hero, the very black, poor Malcolm Little take the same journey despite their very different beginnings. Malcolm Little, street thug, comes of age and becomes Malcolm X, an angry man lost in his own bigotry and exclusion. As Crutcher summarizes, he goes into danger to find peace and the truth that we all need each other. He becomes a wise man. Then he dies before his time. Similarly, Ben comes of age and becomes terminal. Excluding all, he battles alone until his Mecca to truth leads him to a devastating secret about a friend. At this point he realizes that exclusion is not the correct path. He becomes a wise man. Then he dies before his time.

I closed the book knowing that I want my son to live his whole life as Ben lived his last year. Harm no-one. Do not let fear rule your actions. Seek truth and speak truth. Know that we are all connected and that there is a force that makes us one. Always plant rosemary at your garden gate. (Well, that last was from Practical Magic, but I’ve always liked that bit of advice.) Read this book.

On the Nightstand: The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie.

On the iPod: By now you've realized that the title of this blog has nothing to do with the post. It's a lyric from my favorite Sisters of Mercy song, "Nine While Nine." I’ve waited to see them for twenty years. Twenty years. Too late, I discovered that they played Worcester last night. I can tell you when Disney on Ice is coming, however. Geez. Parenthood.

Facebook vs. Friends

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Mon, 20 Oct 2008 17:21:00 +0000

Finally saw Son of Rambow yesterday, technically about a boy from a strict religious sect in mid-eighties England who watches television, Rambo no less, for the first time as a result of befriending a boy who is deemed an outcast by his family and peers.

In reality, this humorous, poignant tale is about so much more. The simple message that I took away was this:

We humans fool ourselves daily, allowing our ego to rule by finding groups (in this tale peer/social and religious) to secure for ourselves a sense of belonging. Of course, these man-made social groups are mere smoke and mirrors. Truth is exposed in crisis -- you either continue blindly adhering to these false identities and never really live, or you find true friendship, love and spirituality.

Great, hope-filled movie. I highly recommend.

On the Nightstand: Twilight by Stephenie Meyer

On the iPod: Billy Bragg

Into the Abyss

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Sun, 05 Oct 2008 23:45:00 +0000

Yesterday was one of those perfect autumn days. Crisp air and a blazing sun in an azure sky guaranteed a starry night filled with pumpkin ice cream and Arsenic and Old Lace (on my side of the couch, anyway -- The Dear Husband prefers Pumpkinhead and Knob Creek.

The fine weather resulted in a decision to fill that wicker picnic basket that we received for a wedding gift eight years ago but have never used and picnic. Toddler in tow, we drove out to Lexington to walk Battle Road. Ah, the Minuteman National Park. Nature at its finest. A well-packed, stonewall lined path meanders through the forest and farmlands of Lexington and Concord, past historical homes and October flowers. One is immersed in the scents and sights of nature without a potentially bug infested tree branch slapping one in the face.

I had paused just past the old tavern to admire the view of a giant sunlit boulder at the edge of the woods across a lush expanse of field beyond the path’s stone wall. Breathtaking. Until the DH announced that the boulder was a perfect spot for lunch, a sentiment that my traitorous son echoed.

I opened my mouth to protest – who knew what waited in those woods and the ankle high grass was a veritable sea of Lyme disease --- but the DH was halfway across the field with the basket brimming with scrumptious delicacies from Pemberton Farms. I scooped up my son and ran to the boulder.

There were bugs. Lots of them. Crickets, spiders, ants, large beetles, and bees. Big bees. Yellow jackets. Bumblebees. I started to cry. My toddler stopped eating his brie and baguette to look at me. “What’s wrong, Mama?”

“B-bees!” I sputtered.

He took my hand.

The DH rolled his eyes.

“Mama,” my little angel said, “I’ll take care of you.” With that, he swatted the bees, yelled at them to go away, then smiled at me. “See Mama? All gone. They won’t bother you again.”

All I can say is that my son is going to make some future girl one happy wife. But that is neither here nor there, if one is of the Eeyore persuasion. We won’t be around long enough to meet her. All signs point to the imminent destruction of mankind: global warming, nuclear threat, Sarah Palin (and, just in case, Joe Biden, too), the loss of Doc Hudson, and the end of the Mayan calendar. After today’s boulder experience, I can only hope that I go out the first day of world’s end. Starvation and bugs. I am so not a brave woman.

The boulder moment no doubt prompted my apocalyptic dreams last night. In them I was the sole key to the salvation of humankind. Translation: people were yelling at me – a lot. After my mother scolded me for not washing out the kitchen sponge (a clear trail for the Enemy Monsters to track), I felt defeat. Tired of hiding, of fighting, and just plain tired of being tired, I figured it was easiest just to stand still and let the monsters devour me. At which point, Eddie Vedder, who may or may not be on the side of the Enemy, arrived for our music class. He informed me that I am a horrible singer and would I mind waiting just a second? He had to stop the tornado from destroying our building but then he would offer me his services, if you know what I mean.

Unfortunately, I then woke up.

There is no point to this particular blog, as you can see. All that has been determined is that I do not like nature (aka reality), that the end of the world is coming (probably), that Eddie Vedder may be a demon, and that I have far too much time on my hands.

On the Nightstand, Kitchen Table and Bathroom Floor: Good reads all – Faefever (Karen Marie Moning), Some Like it Wicked (Teresa Medeiros), Howard Zinn, and Eckhart Tolle.

On the iPod:
The Good: "My Father’s House," Bruce Springsteen
The Bad: a rendition of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah played on the banjo by yours truly, which will be deleted as soon as I have my next lesson
And the Very Ugly That Are Not Actually on My iPod but Keep Creeping Into My Head (hence, another sign of the world’s doom): "Moondance" (have no clue who sings this creepy-corny song) and Jack Jones’s "Wives & Lovers," an absolutely revolting, bottom feeder of songdom.

And the Hippies Can Party!

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 23:23:00 +0000

Except for an abiding love of high-quality patchouli, I will never be a hippy. I’m way too uptight. And it’s definitely a misconception when people say the world would be more peaceful if hippies were in charge. They fall into human folly and meanness just like the rest of us, even if they are more laid back about it. But, as I evidenced this weekend, nobody can throw a wedding like these guys.

Pure joy. And shouldn’t the celebration of a sacred union be all about joy? Usually it isn’t. It’s more about who will be sitting next to whom and making sure Aunt Matilda is invited because one wouldn’t want to offend her even though no-one wants her around. What to serve? Open bar or cash bar? Tux or suit? She showed up wearing, what? I can’t believe she didn’t ask Mitzi to be a flower girl! Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah until the bride ends up on Valium and the groom shows up drunk and the celebration becomes a mockery of the wedding itself.

Unless you are a pure of heart hippy, like my two friends are. Their wedding was most definitely a celebration of their union, their family and friends, and the ideals of hippydom – peace, love, and generosity.

High on a hilltop in rural Vermont, next to a pond, about two-hundred guests wandering around in their Sunday best – some in suits, some in jeans and high-top sneakers – all wearing smiles, hanging out in the sun, playing baseball or Frisbee or guitar or just sitting around and talking while dogs chased each other and kids ran amok until the bugle was sounded for the ceremony, which I missed because my toddler decided to ask his “Why?” questions in that high-squeaky voice. We went for a walk.

And the food! Roast pig, vegetable dishes, cheeses, five cakes, pasta, potatoes, kegs of beer, bottles of wine, water, juice boxes, fresh berries picked from local bushes... A guest could want for nothing. And it just kept coming. Some donated from the community, some catered, all yummy.

The happy couple, bless them, even provided a child activity center complete with paints, crayons, reams of paper, Play-Doh, balls, bats, frisbees, bubbles, a toy shop right on top of the hill.

And it just kept going. Torches lit, bonfire blazing, the groom and all his pals set-up stage and played all night in a Roots Music Lollapalooza. A small miracle getting all these folks together – Session Americana, Bow Thayer, Jabe, Dana Colley, Tim Gearan, Jeremy Moses Curtis, and the list goes on. I felt like I was front row at Lollapalooza. And people just danced and danced – best was watching all those little kids shaking it loose.

I had to leave for the inn at the bottom of the hill before the fireworks – keeping a toddler up three hours past his bedtime didn’t seem wise at the time (won’t make that mistake again) – and let me say that meandering down a wooded hill under a full moon in a black Vermont sky is not a serene experience, especially if one has read Joseph Citro’s Shadow Child, but once safely ensconced in our room, I listened to the creaks and moans of the old inn, my son’s breathing, and felt all was right in the world.

Reading: Thoroughly enjoying Alistair MacLeod – the man can write. Also reading Potty Training Made Easy, Fast and Simple. Riveting. Let's hope it works.

To Split Your Belly Laughing: Rent Flight of the Conchords.

Reviews (or Yapping Just to Hear Myself Yap)

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 17:56:00 +0000

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

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 20:52:00 +0000

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

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 12:54:00 +0000

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

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Sat, 17 May 2008 17:42:00 +0000

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

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Sun, 04 May 2008 15:47:00 +0000

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!

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 18:09:00 +0000

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

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 17:55:00 +0000

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

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Mon, 11 Feb 2008 20:06:00 +0000

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

dina@dinakeratsis.com (Dina Keratsis) — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 16:43:00 +0000

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.