Confession of a Summer Reading Program Participant

I’m having a difficult time writing my summer reading confession, mainly because I’m not writing about my own memories but rather what Kerry is telling me my memories are. But since what she told me is pretty much in line with something I would do, I’m not disputing it or implying that she is up to something as nefarious as implanting memories. However, her interpretation of my motives differ slightly from my own, so it is there where we’ll have to disagree.

The summer I was in the second grade, the reading logs for summer reading participants were on display for all to see in the children’s library. I think this was more for ease of access rather than a way of checking out the competition. But since I have problems respecting other’s privacy, I apparently spent a good deal of time perusing the booklets of some of my classmates. Here is where Kerry’s and my version of the truth splits. She claims I made disparaging comments about the reading level of some of the books my friends were reading, outraged at their number-inflating methods. Apparently my sense of injustice was piqued by a future Titan of Wall Street reading Dr. Seuss instead of pursuing the literary peaks I was climbing in the Happy Hollister series.

I see it differently. For me, I was a seven year-old who was merely looking for reading recommendations in a pre-Internet age. I didn’t have blogs or websites to tell me what to read next. There was no “Amazon recommends” steering me in the right direction. So instead I relied on the informal network of peers provided by the unopened reading logs. And like someone who stumbles upon the reading list of my sister looking for a good book to read (“The Duxbury Book?” Seriously?), I was disappointed in the results.

Which leads me to my next confession. To the surprise of no one, I will not finish “The Lonely Polygamist” or “Bitter is the New Black” within the next sixteen hours. I read the first couple of pages of BITNB and couldn’t gear myself up for it. I paid top dollar/pound for TLP at the one bookstore in Edinburgh that was selling it and then spent the next two weeks frightened by its doorstop ways. But in other news, I am 195 pages into my favorite book of 2010, “The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet,” and 250 pages into “The Resurrection Men." Neither will be finished by midnight, so my sister’s gargantuan lead remains safe. But I promise I will read them and the other required books before the year’s end, if only to satisfy the rules of the game. My sense of summer reading justice, apparently, remains intact.

My dog, Josie, amidst the books I had the best of intentions of reading this summer. It should be noted that the taking of the photograph instigated a large drop of drool to fall on Brady Udall's opus. I think it will be fine.

Travels With the Gilded Fly

I don't want to say I agonized over what my creative project for my book should be, but I did give it some serious thought. An early contender was making Minnie's infamous pie (minus the surprise ingredient) from "The Help." But that seemed too complicated and particularly unappealing given the July heat. I debated about getting in a bar fight to honor "Lonesome Dove" but given my dislike of pain and poor hand-eye coordination, that seemed a bad fit as well. But during a fit of photomania in Scotland (seriously, after the fifteenth picture of an old building I had to ask myself what was wrong), I thought that I could honor the transportive nature of books and make my photos semi-interesting by including the library book I had brought along, "The Curse of the Gilded Fly."

Admittedly, this is a cheap aping of the "Flat Stanley" project every first-grade class does, but I liked the idea of giving a seldom checked out library book a whirlwind vacation. Who knows, maybe "Toy Story 3" affected me more than I realized. In any case, here is "The Curse of the Gilded Fly" in all her renewed-online glory, visiting some of Edinburgh's famous landmarks, literary and otherwise (apologies to Kenneth Grahame’s birthplace, Arthur Conan Doyle’s tutor’s home, and the Sir Walter Scott Tower. I couldn’t do everything).

COTGF with Edinburgh's mascot of unswerving devotion, Greyfriar's Bobby. Just think how quickly the fourteen years would have passed if the little dog had had a book by his side.


I’m no expert in clinical depression, but maybe Robert Fergusson wouldn't have led such a sad life if he had read more lighthearted mysteries.

COTGF paying respects to Clarinda, the love of Robert Burns' life.


Taking in the views on top of Arthur's Seat

Stopping by the Elephant House, the coffee shop where J.K. Rowling wrote some of the first chapters of "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's/Philosopher's Stone." There is another coffee shop a few blocks over that weakly contends they, too, were a location for Rowling's writing. I like to imagine area coffee shops are now in a war to woo aspiring fantasy young adult novelists in the hopes of reaping future tourism benefits.

What's COTGF doing here? Oh, just being read by David Mitchell, that's all. I'm not saying Mitchell's life was changed by this moment, but don't be surprised if his follow-up to "The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet" is a return to the Golden Age of Mystery. (Sidenote: If you go hear David Mitchell do a reading and then get your book signed, he is a surprisingly good sport about taking a picture with a library book).

Boomerang's More Than a Forgettable Eddie Murphy Movie

Kerry made fun of me earlier for my childhood love of Agatha Christie, and I am unapologetic about that phase of my life.* Without Christie, how else would I have learned such valuable life lessons like the dangers of kissing a pregnant woman when you have German Measles? Now when I see a pregnant lady, the first thing I think is, "Do I have German Measles?" and if the answer is "no" then I go up to greet her. If the answer is "yes," I run away as fast as possible because I know the alternative is to be killed by a deranged movie star twenty years later.

That being said, I've reread some of the Christie books I remembered loving in my youth over the past few years and I have to say, you can't go home again. Confessions that I remembered as being on par with Greek Tragedy struck me as mundane twenty years later. The nanny's breakdown in "Murder on the Orient Express" crushed me in the fifth grade but I read right past it three years ago. "A Murder is Announced" probably has one of my favorite twists of all time (and the Joan Hickson BBC version ranks up there with "Citizen Kane" in my humble opinion) but it seemed preposterous when I read it as an adult. Plus, after the third time a slim young woman emits a murderous cry and pulls out a pearl-handled pistol in the final chapter, the effect is somewhat lessened.

But I found a used copy of "The Boomerang Clue" (aka "Why Didn't They Ask Evans") at Myopic Books when I was trying to load up on reading material for the plane ride to Scotland. And for old time's sake (and $2.95), I bought it. "The Boomerang Clue" isn't one of the Tommy and Tuppence mysteries, but it might as well be. Goofy guy and clever heiress stumble upon a mystery, they resist their growing attraction, they go undercover, a forged letter puts them in danger, and the mystery's conclusion reveals they've been in love the entire time. It was charming and breezy and I couldn't remember how it ended, which is pretty much what I wanted. And as dismissive of Agatha as I am, I still couldn't pinpoint who the murderer was until it was too late. So I'll continue my abusive relationship with Christie, and even though she pummels me with two-dimensional characters and out-of-left-field revelations, I'll keep coming back, because sometimes I have no reading-self-respect.

*Also, I took the high road, and didn't out her embarrassing reading liaisons, such as how 13 year-old Kerry holed up in a hotel room for three days during our family's trip to Montreal so she could finish "Gone With the Wind."

The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest, Stieg Larsson

Brendan called me a few nights ago, hours after arriving home to Chicago from his month in Scotland. It had already been a long day for him, although it was hardly dinnertime, and jet lag was beginning to set in. It was nice of him to call and great to catch up with him, but let's just acknowledge that he was a tiny bit cranky.

I tried. I really, really tried not to mention reading or books or literature or reading logs, but I couldn't help but crack a joke about what he read while on the plane. I really don't recommend making bad jokes at the expense of an improvisational actor, particularly one who has performed for 30 days straight and is exhausted. Here's the PG version of what went down. I didn't take notes, so you'll just have to trust me on this one:

Kerry: So, did you read anything good on the plane?
Brendan: Gee whiz, Kerry. Are we really going to talk about that?
K: (laughter)
B: Gosh darn it, Kerry. I carried all my books back stateside. I didn't read "Bitter is the New Black" or "The Lonely Polygamist". Stop laughing.
K: (laughter)
B: Golly gee wilikers. You're reading the Swedish John Grisham and I'm tackling literary masterpieces like...like...like...(gentle snoring. Fade to abrupt cut off, courtesy of Verizon Wireless).

I'm not celebrating yet, because Brendan has a full 48 hours to load up his log with slim volumes of poetry, plays and manga before the official end of our reading challenge. That is, if he's woken up yet.

Meanwhile...

I did it! I know what happens to Lisbeth! Posthumous kudos to Stieg Larsson for naming every_ single_little_character_in_the_whole_entire_series. I had to grab some paper and pencil for the final book to keep everyone's allegiances straight. There were times when my mind wandered while reading the third and final book in the Millennium Trilogy, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest, but I liked how the ending played out. Despite his slanderous comments, I'm sure Brendan will be borrowing/bringing back to Chicago, never to return the series when he is next back in Boston.

Winter's Bone

In yet another pathetic attempt to remain current (see: skinny jeans* and listening to Cee-Lo), I joined Twitter a few months ago. I did it mainly to follow various pop-culture and news blogs, and Roger Ebert's feed was one of the first to which I subscribed. I love him because of his cranky-old-man-tell-it-like-it-is style, but I can't stand him because of his ceaseless retweets of people who I have no desire to hear from, namely Bluegrass Poet. Not to be melodramatic, but her spare and folksy 140-character ramblings make me want to drink bleach. I can't take anyone seriously who talks about the "obstreperous dawn chatter" of the birds in her yard.

This is a roundabout way of saying that I loved Daniel Woodrell's "Winter's Bone." Employing a similarly spare style as Ms. Bluegrass (to far greater success), Woodrell's sentences are gorgeously constructed and totally fit into the time and place of his Ozark-set story. The lushness of his writing counterbalances the bleak existence of his characters, luring you into reading this often grim tale. Like Gillian Flynn in "Dark Places," he captures the visceral dread of poverty, and if I could have written a check for the characters after the first twenty pages, I would have.

The book itself is set up as a detective story, with sixteen year-old Ree Dolly having to track down her missing father,who also happens to be one of the ares most skilled meth makers. He has put up their house in his jail bond, and if he doesn't shows up to his upcoming court date Ree and her two young brothers will be homeless. As she interviews the various terrifying people who make up her town and family, she introduces the reader to an alomost forgotten part of America, where resources and opportunites are scarce. By the end of the novel, she has come into her own (not to spoil anything but I thought you would want to know such a desperate story has a somewhat happy ending). After finishing it, I was grateful to have been exposed to such a world, yet well aware that I would last all of .8 seconds in the company of Meth Dealers (coincidentally .2 seconds I would have lasted in the word of "Lonesome Dove").

*Just a joke. I would never wear something that uncomfortable. Besides, I am over thirty.

The Girl Who Played with Fire, Stieg Larsson

Oh Lisbeth. As my grandmother would say, you poor, poor thing. I know you really can't make better-- or even different-- choices, but I keep holding out some hope.

I'm glad that Lisbeth Salander is more human in "The Girl Who Played with Fire", the second of the Millennium Trilogy. She feels empathy and guilt, as opposed to operating solely on animal instinct and base survival skills. We discover that her behavior can't be simply labeled as Asperger's, it's deeper, more evil, more sinister. While I admired her independence and spirit in the face of adversity in the first book, now I just want to heal her and make her better. Be dull, but be well.

Blomkvist, on the other hand... I was cheering him on in the first book, but he's an annoying know-it-all in the second. I missed Berger and wished she had a greater role instead of checking out. And I can't keep track of all the detectives and officers and consultants. Character list, please?

I don't own the third book (in a moment of thriftiness, I only bought the first two books thinking that, if I didn't like the series, I'd put off buying the pricier hardcovered third). Whichever bookstore opens the earliest today might have me as a customer.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Stieg Larsson

I had resisted reading "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" because of the subject matter (rape, incest, brutality, murder, etc.). I'm well aware of the horrors of those subjects and just don't find any entertainment in watching or reading those kinds of fictionalized tales. However, I also hate preaching from a soap box without being more fully informed. (Well, to be perfectly honest, I'm ok with it, but there are simply too many smart people in my life who like to question such opinions.) Enough people have praised Stieg Larsson's writing and complex plots, so I decided it was time to give him a shot.

They are all correct. After about 20 pages, I was gripped by the plot. I would write more about "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo", but that would take me away from reading the second book in the Millennium Trilogy. I'm pretty fixated on finding out what happens (and have somehow managed to avoid all discussions and reviews of the final outcome). But, now halfway through the whole trilogy, I have to agree with Tom Matlack and others who question whether Larsson's books get people talking about violence against women or are simply entertainment. But I still have another 800 pages or so to go...

The French Lieutenant's Woman, John Fowles

Reading Challenge #1: Accepted, endured, enjoyed and completed.

My first 100 pages of "The French Lieutenant's Woman" was filled with memories of my high school English classes, particularly freshman and senior year. These were the years I (re)read Thomas Hardy, Charlotte Bronte, Jane Austen, DH Lawrence, George Eliot. Fowles' book (published in 1969) mimics the overdose of imagery, landscape and detail so commonly found in 19th and early 20th century literature and, of course, is set in the English countryside in the 1860s. He duplicates the cadence so well that it brought to mind a writing exercise I did in ninth grade, writing a letter in the style of Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre. Of course, mine was two handwritten pages, and Fowles pulls it off in nearly 500 typewritten (but mine was pretty darn good, I have to say, for a 13 year old). It was hard to focus on the text while my mind was drifting off remembering CP listing Victorian slang on the blackboard or JB making us sit by the marsh while he read us passages on meadows and landscapes.

But, as always happens, the story took hold of me (this time at around page 250) and I followed the narrator along the dirt paths, steep inclines, carriage roads and hayfields to learn more about Charles, Sarah and Ernestina. I appreciated the twist of the narrator becoming an active character in the plot, shaking up a predictable ending. Brendan was right: TFLW combines many of my literary favorites, the English countryside, a smart alec servant, a beaten but strong woman. But there was also a hint of the summer fun of a Choose Your Own Adventure gamebook. "Do you think the Sam delivered the brooch to Sarah? If so, turn to page 417. Do you think Sam kept the brooch to finance his dream job? If so, turn to page 423." (Brendan: note the obscure but pivotal reference to the plot. See, I did read it all.) Wisely, Fowles refrained from treading too far down that path. (Incidentally, I read an adult book written in the CYOA style about a year ago. I can't for the life of me remember the title or author, but it was published recently. The goal was to see how far into the book you could get before you, the character, reached the end of your life. Help, anyone?)

Well chosen, Brendan. And the movie has now been added to my Netflix queue. Dan's gonna love it, right?

My Lifelong Link with Sylvia Plath

Of all the places where I keep my books (shelves, tables, baskets, bags, piles; my husband would say mostly piles), I only have one small set of bookshelves that are untouched by small hands. (My sons love to play a game called bookstore, where they stack as many books as possible onto the treadmill/conveyer belt, "scan" them, then stack them in teetering piles on a nearby bench. They have yet to learn how to return books to the proper place in the proper alignment. I'm sure they will learn this skill in preschool.) The books in my smallest bookcase are still organized by category, from short stories, collections, and plays to biographies and autobiographies.

Today, taking a cue from Brendan, I searched the depths of this bookcase in an attempt to find something to read (other than TFLW). For some reason, it's taken me 20 years to see the humor of what I rediscovered this morning:

This is the high school English Literature award I received in my senior year. Instead of trophies, our school awarded books related to the field of study, selected by the teachers with the recipient in mind. My book, chosen with care by the Head of the English Department was...

Judging from the dog earred pages, I've read it more than once. Good luck at college, Kerry!

Do You Think You're a Terrible Mother? Feel Better with Anne Tyler!

"Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant" with other books I hope to read. Note the sultriness!

When I was home in June, I stockpiled a few books that I, in my naivete, thought would be "quick reads." One of these was a book that had always seemed tantalizing as a young boy, my mother's 1983 copy of Anne Tyler's "Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant." The title practically guarantees comfort. Everyone likes dinner and how could anything unpleasant happen in a book with a word as cozy as "homesick" in the title? Plus, the cover was so alluring in the way that only early 80's cover art can be. A sexy woman's head, her lips slightly parted, hovers over a table, an equally good-looking man's head just off in the shadows. This would be a book where Big Things happen! After the first chapter, I thought I was in for a treat. A spinster marries a slick salesman, has three babies, and then promptly gets deserted. But she picks herself up, gets a job as a grocery store clerk, and proceeds to provide for her family. Familial laughs and tears would surely proceed, right? Right?!!!

Alas, no. Tyler subtly switches perspective and we realize that the mother, besides being the resourceful and loving woman we met in the first chapter, has reservoirs of fear and cruelty she regularly unleashes on her children. This is a book that shows Motherhood is Hard, and not Motherhood is Hard in a Tom Perotta "I-forgot-the-juicebox" kind of way, but in a I'm-So-Overwhelmed-By-Responsibility-I-Whacked-My-Three-Year-Old's-Face-Into-Her-Beatrix-Potter-Plate" kind of way. Needless to say, reading about such an unhappy family was kind of a slog.

Tyler pulls no punches and presents a bunch of people who have never really recovered from their past and probably never will. The kids hurt themselves and each other, periodically achieving periods of grace. I was aware that so many other writers and filmmakers have covered this territory since ("August: Osage County," "Interiors," "Six Feet Under") that I wasn't as entranced with the book as I would have if I had read it when it first came out. But Tyler's writing is beautifully precise and she crafts a humdinger of a closing paragraph. But the promise of the cover (who was that lady supposed to be anyway, 1982 Graphic Designer? Pearl? Her daughter? And if so, who was the dude behind her? Her brother? You're disgusting and terrible at your job) was never achieved and I shall have to hunt elsewhere for my summer escapist fare.

Me reading backstage. I was probably listening to speed-reading tapes.

Invoking the ISBN rule: Duxbury...Past and Present

I know, I know: our reading republic is rallying behind Brendan, hoping that he spends his time in Edinburgh reading instead of performing. Hoping that he's been stockpiling posts, that maybe tomorrow (or at least the day after tomorrow), he'll add 20 titles to his log. A more compassionate sister might focus more on epic tomes, or simply stop posting entirely.

Alas, we never determined skunk rules in our reading program, and I love my brother too much to deny him fierce competition to the end. Since Brendan has already shared my childhood love for invoking lesser known rules in our games, it's fitting to apply this to our reading challenge. Hello, ISBN rule!

I have now read ISBN 978-0-941859-11-0 (an adult, non-fiction book) at least 12 times this summer, mostly out loud (and in slightly condensed form) to my three year old sons, who are obsessed with-- what else?-- town history.

Yup. If they're very, very good this year, maybe Santa will bring them their very own autographed copies of "Duxbury...Past and Present".

Here's how it started: The town's historical society did a letterboxing project this summer (if you are local, you should check it out; it's very well done). 10 clues, 10 separate boxes, 10 different sites particular to Duxbury's history. While easy enough to do in a day, we chose to spread this out over the course of the summer, which helped turn this into the Summer of Duxbury History. Having grown up here, I remember most of the big facts (Pilgrims! Clipper ships! Cranberries!), but my kids are into the minutiae: like that the Cranberry Factory Mill had nothing to do with cranberry production (textiles); Myles Standish has been exhumed three times; and the Powder Point School for Boys was destroyed by fire. They now know that practically every abandoned stone foundation that they see near water was once the site of a saw mill. They have nearly suffered whiplash while quickly turning to catch the sight of a stone marker by the side of the road (there are loads). They are hooked. So, they ask questions, I respond or we look the answer up in the book, then we pass away a little more time reading about some other local history and lore.

Earlier this week, they found their last remaining letterbox and made their way to collect their prize: a pretty swanky t-shirt announcing that they "put their stamp on history". They are excited that another round of letterboxes is in the works for this fall. And the three of them are talking about making their own clues and creating letterboxes. Best yet*, I was able to take pictures of the three of them together (a rare thing, indeed).

(Lest you think this was all idyllic, I'll share that there was quite a bit of arguing over who got to find the clues, some bossiness, a few mosquito bites, and one moment when the kids decided to explore a conservation trail and I basically whined to get them back on the letterbox track. We were on a mission, folks!).

*Well, no. The best is that I added a book to the log in the process.

Winter Garden, Kristin Hannah

"Winter Garden" is an odd choice for a summer read, but I grabbed it out of my mother's library bag on the strength of previous books by Kristin Hannah. As it turned out, I read much of the book at night during a rain storm, while my children had nightmares and wandered from bed to bed. That setting was a good match for the story.

Hannah is from that large genre of women who write of the complex relationships between women, especially within families. The men serve to move the story forward, but it's the many roles of women-- wife, mother, sister, daughter, female, girlfriend, friend, colleague, professional-- that Hannah explores in each novel. Usually, the story is pretty linear, but in "Winter Garden" she covers 60 years of relationships, jumping back and forth from time and place to tell the story of Anya, a Russian immigrant and distant mother to adult daughters Meredith and Nina. Hannah uses the first half of the book to tediously lay the groundwork for the real story in the second half: Anya's unspoken life in Leningrad during the era of Stalin. Hannah doesn't sugarcoat Anya's experiences, forcing the reader to slowly move through the horrors and sadness of wartime to present day. As a somewhat prize to her readers who stuck with the nearly 400 page novel, Hannah leaves us with a story on the upswing, an unexpectedly happyish (and unrealistic) ending to a sad, sad (too true) tale.

(It wouldn't surprise me if this book gets optioned and we see it in theatres in 2013. I predict that the music of Celine Dion will play a major role in the film. It's Titanic, set in snowy Russia. Our father will buy the soundtrack and Brendan will poke fun, then secretly upload the files.)

The Lonely Polygamist, Brady Udall

After a lengthy (okay, two minute) discussion, Brendan and I decided that our second reading challenge (required by the official rules) would be a book that neither of us had read. Brady Udall's "The Lonely Polygamist" has appeared on many different (1) must read (2) lists (3) this year and, despite it being 600 pages, we both were up for the challenge.

First, the disclaimer: Brendan, this post may contain spoilers. You still need to read the book.

Brendan and I grew up one generation removed from a big family: our father is the second oldest of nine children. Because our father has never once said anything negative about his family (seriously, nada), we always believed that being part of a large family was, hands down, the best thing ever. (But it's just me and Brendan in our family; perhaps it's better to be the child in a large family than the parent?). Holidays with our dad's immediate family always meant a party of at least 50. Living within a 15 mile radius of most relatives, we spent every Sunday morning with our grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. We all got along, visits never felt like a chore, it was all quite idyllic. Big families rock. (And yet I happily stopped at three).

Even without our family history, I'd probably still be intrigued by large families, what with my love for TLC and Discovery Channel. My time with Jon+Kate and the Duggar family goes all the way back to their first one-hour specials. I'm fascinated by how they handle the logistics of all those kids (bickering and fundamentalism aside). My favorite family by far is the Hayes family, who are mostly overlooked by the media since they're actually normal (other than having two sets of twins and sextuplets). I'll admit to watching all of these shows when I was pregnant with my twins, taking note of what to do and what to avoid.

Polygamy, however...polygamist families just don't hold any interest for me. Sure, their families are super big, but I can't see past the usual subordination of women, lack of education, ultra conservativeness, child brides, forced marriages and insular world that they call their community. These families are not entertainment (I've never watched Big Love), they're news headlines.

But Brady Udall's interviews on this book got me hooked. He said his focus was on contemporary polygamy. He highlighted families that functioned with respect for women and education (including one family that boasted a PhD and attorney as two of the wives). He said there are plyg families who live their lives more integrated with the typical world. In fact, he even confessed to being the product of polygamy (a great grandparent was the child of a man and second wife). Udall never claims that polygamy is right or recommended, but suggests that today's polygamists are less fundamentalist extremists and more like the average American family than we may think. Udall's interviews even got me thinking about the acceptance of "legal polygamy", that it's generally okay for a man to have a family with one wife, divorce her, remarry and reproduce, divorce, repeat. Hugh Hefner is practically exalted by the media, and he's got a harem. Udall got me thinking that it's time for me to walk my liberal talk and take a closer look at this notion of contemporary polygamy.

I don't know what book Udall was referencing in these interviews, but "The Lonely Polygamist" is not contemporary at all, unless you take into account the family's running water, electricity and public school education (for some). Golden, the patriarch, is an uneducated, self-involved, barely-scraping-by general contractor with a disfiguring overbite. Beverly is the Bible thumping first wife who arranges the subsequent marriages to his other wives: Nola (laughing nitwit); Rose-of-Sharon (mentally unstable); and Trish (formerly abused). There is little family cohesion, but plenty of bickering, borderline abusive teasing, bullying, and neglect. Several children die as a result of lack of supervision and intervention. Throw in infidelity, prostitution, and poverty, and that's the book. Newsflash to Udall: this is exactly what I thought polygamy was like.

Don't get me wrong: "The Lonely Polygamist" is extremely well-written with quite a few characters that grab the reader from the start. Several characters grapple with wrenching decisions and certain moments bring out inner heroes. I understand why the book is so popular on the must-read lists. But contemporary it is not. Take away the utilities, medical progress, hard core construction equipment, and public schools, and you've got yourself a basic polygamy story that could be from any post Joseph Smith, Jr era.

Hmm...so maybe that's Udall's point after all?

The Curse of Trying to Eradicate a Twelve Book Deficit

After the heavy lifting of “Lonesome Dove” and “Dark Places,” I was looking for something lighter/less depressing to read. I had a week left before my month in Scotland, and two library books from which to choose. Of course, in all my brash ambition, I thought I could polish them both off in a week while simultaneously packing up my life for a month. But then I realized I was the world’s slowest reader, already ten to eleven books behind my sister. So when the time for the actual Sophie’s Choice between the two rolled around, I had to go with the easier read. So even though I really wanted to read “Faithful Place,” I had to put her back in the returned books bin, unread, and side with “The Curse of the Gilded Fly.”

Kerry has already mentioned my childhood weakness for Agatha Christie and Martha Grimes*, and so I thought Edmund Crispin’s book might be a welcome return to my youth. Plus, it had been touted by Nancy Pearl, and fell into one of my favorite subgenres, Mysteries that Take Place in a Boarding School/University Setting (see “The Secret History,” “The Likeness,” and “The Disreputable Reputation of Frankie Landau-Banks”). The book jacket touted it as a return to The Golden Age of Mystery, and while I certainly enjoyed the cast of eccentric characters, but I forgot how boring books from TGAOM can be. Most of the book is static scenes of interviews, set in a parlor, and the action doesn’t kick in until the final chapter. But the World War II setting lent a menacing air (blackouts play a key role), and the book is weirdly funny. Characters frequently call out the fact that they’re characters in a book, and Crispin writes with an acidic dryness. The book also serves as a reminder as to how much smarter everyone was fifty years ago. Even the dumb characters knowledgeably reference “Cymbeline” and “Pericles” (huh?) and the vocab words sent me racing to a dictionary, or at least dictionary.com. So while I didn’t love the book, I appreciate the fact that it taught me such words as prolegomena, objurgatory, and – my personal favorite – aposiopesis, which -

Martha Grimes probably served as my Meg Cabot, teaching me all about “kissing, dating, birth control, homosexuality, eating disorders, unplanned pregnancies, unwed mothers, or cliques.”

The Other Family, Joanna Trollope

I always wanted an older sibling, preferably a brother. He would help me out when I needed, but not in a bossy way. He would often play the games I wanted, unless he came up with a better idea that I liked. He'd take the blame for things I did, and let me claim the praise for things he did. He'd be fraternal perfection.

Instead, I was the eldest and, I'm sorry to say, a wee bit bossy and exacting (note the use of the past tense).

While scavenging in the new fiction section last week, I pulled out Joanna Trollope's "The Other Family". Two families are strangely pulled together following the sudden death of their shared father, leaving all members to struggle with how to continue their lives in the face of such loss. While I felt many of the characters were forgettable or unlikable, I was intrigued by the growing friendship between the son (now 37) and his youngest half-sister, an 18-year-old girl whom he meets for the first time at their father's funeral. At a time when their nuclear families and friends fail them, they find the support they so desperately need in each other. Trollope stops herself from creating the perfect blended family in the end (no NutraSweet ending here), but gives the reader some hope that they all get through this sad and awkward experience for the better.

The Postmistress, Sarah Blake

I've got a bit of a fascination with the postal system, or so I've been told. I think it's perfectly normal to anticipate the mail carrier, race to see what has been delivered, and think about all the steps that have taken place to ensure its safe arrival. I'm probably the only person not involved in the production of The Postman who has seen it more than once (Three hours? Not long enough!). I spent an afternoon at the National Postal Museum soon after its grand opening at the newest location, and still only saw a fragment of the collections (whereas everyone else sped through in one hour). I don't care about stamps or collecting, it's the idea that someone somewhere writes something down, can just add some basic information on an envelope, then trust that the process will work and deliver it to the intended. What happens when the system slows or breaks down? When human nature intervenes? Is it okay to sneak a peek at a postcard? Throw away what looks like junk mail? Deliver a letter tomorrow instead?

Nancy Pearl, librarian extraordinaire (I can't believe Brendan hasn't already bragged about knowing her), recently blogged that she always starts a book discussion by asking what the title has to do with the book. At first glance, The Postmistress seems pretty straightforward. World War II has begun in Europe, but the US has yet to become involved. Information is wanted, whether broadley (as in radio newscasts) or individually (personal letters). It stands to reason that Iris James, the postmaster of her small Cape Cod town, must be the central character, given the title. Instead, Sarah Blake tells the story through the eyes and hearts of three women, Emma (the doctor's wife), Iris, and Frankie (a radio reporter broadcasting from Europe), all of whom play a role in delivering and receiving messages and information within their own worlds. It's a fascinating reminder of how slowly the world reacted to information just 70 years ago and how news was more closely protected by those with power. It recalls a time when secrets could truly be kept...or lost forever.

While the backdrop is World War II, the underlying message of the book to attune oneself to breaches of truth, justice, and equality is as timely in our present day lives as it was in the 1940s. It is easy to identify with Frankie's zest and zeal, Emma's earnestness, and Iris' commitment to order and preservation; yet in truth, many of us readers most likely resemble Maggie, Mrs. Cripps, or the Jakes brothers--any of those characters just living their lives (rightfully or wrongfully) in their own bubble. How easy it is to forget the suffering and horror going on throughout our world and just busy ourselves with what is in front of our own homes. Sarah Blake leaves the reader with haunting images of the pain and suffering of war: whether here at home or in lands far away; whether of relatives or strangers; whether then or now.

I Was Told There'd Be Cake, Sloane Crosley

In an attempt to be more, shall we say, selective in my summer reading, I took a look at NPR's Summer 2010 reading suggestions. I tagged a bunch of them to read, including one by Sloane Crosley. Upon further investigation, I realized that "How Did You Get This Number" was actually her second memoir, so of course I had to go ahead and get the first, "I Was Told There'd Be Cake". Always respect the order, fellow readers, always.

Sloane Crosley didn't ring any bells for me, as my time for online news reading is pretty limited and I, at best, just make it through the big headlines. Judging from her bio and list of publications, I was really impressed and eager to read someone who others had praised so highly.

Acknowledging that a memoir is, by its very nature, self-involved, I still found Crosley's themes to center around her reaction to the faulty acts of others, but never her own. David Sedaris is a contemporary master of pointing out the failings of others, but also his own, which include some of his funniest stories. Hardly 30, Crosley writes predominantly of her early twenties, without the objectivity that another decade or two might give. Crosley is pretty much EveryGirl: decent childhood, college educated, gainfully employed, independent. Other than a knack for snarkiness, I'm not sure what insight she gives that most women haven't lived through own their own (and would prefer to forget).

Despite my love of memoirs and catching any glimpse into someone else's inner, usually private thoughts, I don't feel any surge of interest in uncovering more details about Crosley's life...unless she has more to say in 2025 or so.

Brendan's Underhanded Strategies

I've been getting some flack for reading my brother into such a deep, dark hole. Choosing fluff instead of his weightier tomes. Brendan claims I've done stuff like send him mocking texts (untrue; they were encouraging) and vicious voicemails (false; I rarely call him). I may have emailed him something like, "Post something!", although that was more a response to my friends making complete fun of me for being the only person blogging here.

Brendan plays the part of the innocent very well. It's time to expose him.

Yesterday, this postcard appeared in the mail, addressed to my husband:

Are you all still rooting for Team Brendan?

"Dark Places" and the Real Winner is Named

After being put through the wringer with "Lonesome Dove," I just wanted an easy book where the characters go through a minor conflict, tell each other exactly how they feel, and then resolve their problems with a wedding on a Long Island estate. But I left for a trip on Sunday and was beholden to the books I put on hold at the Chicago Public Library. I'm not sure if Dewey made a classification assignment for "Terrifying Literature Where Psychologically Damaged People Unearth the Horrors of the Past," but I am certain that the books I have selected would sit on that shelf.

I had wanted to read "Dark Places" by Gillian Flynn because I had really enjoyed/been creeped out by her "Sharp Objects" a few years ago. I had thought "Sharp Objects" was great but the tiniest bit sloppy- the ending teetered into camp and I thought the villain was a caricature (that being said, there are images from the final chapters that still pop unbidden into my brain three years later like a forgotten nightmare). But "Dark Places" is so fully realized and Flynn's writing is so impressive that I think she establishes herself as one of the best writers around.

The book centers around a farming family, most of whom get butchered by the 15 year-old son presumably as part of a Satanic ritual in 1985. Twenty-four years later, the surviving daughter, emotionally stunted and unable to fit into society, finds herself out of the money that was raised for her in the aftermath of the tragedy. She agrees to interview the key players of that terrible evening on behalf of a fringe group that believes her brother was unjustly imprisoned. The novel is then narrated in three parts in alternating chapters, from the perspective of Libby in the present day and then by her mother and her brother on the day of the murders. These flashbacks make you begin each new chapter with mounting dread – as Libby gets closer to the truth her mother and brother creep closer to the time of the murder and you know there’s not going to be any wedding on a Long Island estate that will make everything all better.

Flynn's virtuosity is on full display here as she creates full-blooded characters who (I hope! Oh, how I hope) are far removed from her own real-life experience. Libby is sympathetic even as she remains (realistically) self-centered and destructive. Ben, the brother, rings true as an angry adolescent struggling to find his place in the world. His mother breaks your heart as she tries to keep her family afloat after years of bad decisions and worse luck. Even the peripheral characters, from low-life drug dealers to the wide-eyed members of the various serial killer fan clubs, come alive in a few paragraphs. She tackles big themes - poverty, sexuality, abuse – but weaves them into the story so gracefully they never seem heavy-handed.

I am desperate to recommend this book to somebody else, but it’s a big risk to tell someone how great a book is where two little girls end up gruesomely murdered.* But I think the emotional depth of the characters elevates this book from run-of-the-mill thriller material into something greater. So if you love mysteries and don’t have children, I hope you consider this book the next time you’re looking for something to read.

*This book would break my sister, so the fact that I am not forcing her to read it as my second challenge shows that I have won. Do you hear me? I won! I have won!!!

A Dubious Interpretation of Rule #4 (The Princess Diaries Vol I-III, Meg Cabot)

I never quite stopped reading young adult books (looking back, I simply paused during college and those early adult years). In 1996, while browsing in the children's section for a 2-year-old's birthday gift, I came across a book I had loved more than a decade earlier: Dicey's Song. Several other Tillerman books had been published since I had last read the book and, being a sucker for a sequel, I bought the next title. The following week, I went back for the next one. I'll admit, when the guy in the children's section asked if he could help me, I claimed I was looking for "my niece" and dashed away lest my secret be out.

J.K. Rowling legitimized adults reading kids' fiction, and Stephenie Meyer brought it into the mainstream. I'm now in that awkward, in between spot: I have a daughter who loves to read. She's a tween (how weird is that word?). She's about a voracious reader as I am, although with less stringent rules (for instance, she will read a series out of order. I stopped reading Trixie Belden around 1983 because I couldn't find Book #6. #7, #12, #21, #30: all present. Not #6. How psyched was I when they began reprinting the books in 2006? But only up to #13. Will I ever learn what happened in the final 20 books?).

In any case, I'm always previewing books that my daughter might read. She's almost 9, so loves anything about kids around that age, but turns her nose at romance, fashion and mean girls. (My daughter rocks). While at Borders the other night, I found a collection of the first three Princess Diaries books on sale. Now, my daughter has seen the movie and, thanks to Brendan meeting Meg Cabot at a conference, owns several of the Allie Finkle books. While I was fairly certain that Princess Mia was still in Hadley's future, I decided for $1.98, I could buy the starter set and see for myself.

OK, so Hadley won't be reading the Princess Diaries anytime soon. Not that she isn't aware (in no particular order) of kissing, dating, birth control, homosexuality, eating disorders, unplanned pregnancies, unwed mothers, or cliques... but I'm fairly certain that there is a rule somewhere that says kids must read Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, Watership Down, and the complete Wrinkle in Time series before tackling these subjects. I, however, am more than a little enamored of Mia and her friends. They're smart. They struggle with typical teen angst, but manage to stay true to themselves. The adults are pretty realistic (aside from the sudden announcement about being royalty) and also flawed (I've never found the perfect parents to be believable or interesting). The writing is tight, the topics are relevant, the characters are recognizable...I get why Disney was so eager to jump on the Meg Cabot bandwagon.

Will my interest be maintained over ten volumes? Probably not, but that's why I'm not the target audience. I am curious how Mia handles her first trip to Genovia, so I'm sensing a trip to get book four in my future.

P.S. to Brendan: The three books combined equaled over 700 pages, so I passed the 300 page requirement of rule 4. I know I told you that I wasn't even going to post this one, but you want me to remain true to the reading program, right? Right? Anyway, think of it as a public service announcement for screening books for children.

When Lonesome Doves Cry

My personal soundtrack to "Lonesome Dove"

Last Wednesday I finished "Lonesome Dove," which I haven't been able to write about because all of my free time has been devoted to lessening the nine-book lead Kerry suddenly holds. But after she left several voice messages and texts that I can only describe as "abusive," I decided to finally put finger to keyboard and sum up the experience.

First of all, Larry McMurtry pretty much pulls off a master class in storytelling. The first 400 pages* he causally envelops you into the tale, introducing you to a disparate group of characters he draws with broad but precise strokes. Then he spends the next 500** pages walloping you with emotional suckerpunch after suckerpunch. It's a cliché, but you do fall in love with the characters.*** I found myself bartering with a higher power over the fates of my favorites, promising to clean my apartment/volunteer/donate to the Gulf if only they survived the Indian attack/found true love/admitted their paternity. I was worn out by the end, and can now understand the need for forgettable fiction where you aren't invested in the character's lives.

For me, one of the great joys in reading a book set before 1900 is trying to figure out when I would have died in that time period. I have a delicate immune system and no discernible manual skills, so I'd be pretty easy pickin' for all predators, human and viral. And McMurtry proves time and time again that I don't have the mettle to last long in the open West. Would I have gotten crushed in a cattle stampede? Besieged by water snakes during a river crossing? Casually shot down by horse thieves? The answer is probably a combination of all three. I found myself emphasizing with Roscoe Brown, the hapless deputy who sets out to find his sheriff only to be continually told by everyone he meets that he should turn around and find work as a clerk. I don't want to ruin anything by telling what happens to him, but I am grateful to live in a time with Mapquest and GPS.

*400? I know what you're saying, but trust me, you get lulled into the gentle rhythm and they go by fast.

**500?!? But it's a fast 500.

***Except for Ellie.

Every Last One, Anna Quindlen

Yup. I read a sad book. A terribly, horribly, intensely sad book. So far, the world continues to turn on its axis, but my eyes may forever be tinged red.

It's Anna Quindlen, so of course I knew she'd have some nice woman go through torturous grief, something that was both unbelievably unrealistic yet utterly possible at the same time. Quindlen's writing always brings the reader right in, so far in that you're shouting, "No! Stay away from him!" or "Slow down! Slow down! The roads are terrible!", even though it's the middle of the night and the kids and your husband are sound asleep and your screams (or sobs) will scare them. My mother warned me when I borrowed this book from her. "Are you sure about this?" she said, and I assured her that I could handle it.

By the third page, I began to have my doubts. Happy family (like me). Three kids (like me). Daughter the oldest (check). Twin boys (ditto). I started my internal chant, "Please, don't do anything to the kids."

Reading "Every Last One" is like opening a Jack-in-the-Box. Duh nah duh nah duh na-na-na-nah. OK, that chapter done, no one hurt yet. Duh nah duh nah duh na-nah. Potential dark things lurking, but everyone still fine. Duh nah duh nah duh na-na-na-nah. POP! Page 154 jumps out at you.

154 pages of waiting...for the monster under the bed, the creaking door, the shower curtain being pulled abruptly away. Oh Anna, you didn't. Oh Anna, you did.

Quindlen, as always, is a masterful storyteller with such strong writing that I was pulled along into the plot, feeling pain and relief for the characters as they struggled with their tragedy. I just hope that her next novel doesn't strike so close to home (hers, yours, or mine).

Chick-lit Gets Serious: Infidelity

I should have campaigned more strongly for a separate category for typical chick-lit authors who occasionally tread in more somber waters. Our official rules require me to balance a light and fluffy book with something more serious, but what about when a Cool Whip book suddenly turns serious? When I'm shuddering, not laughing? When bad things happen to children? What is this genre coming to?

I love to loathe Jennifer Weiner. I didn't mind her first books so much, but at some point she just plain began to bother me. I can't be the first person to think it just wrong that Weiner is shelved right next to Elie Wiesel. But, anyway, she just published "Fly Away Home" and I, lemming that I am, bought it. (In Target. I apologize to all the small, independent booksellers in my area). For some reason, Weiner decided the world had not yet tired of real political sex scandals and thought we'd might like to read a fictional account of one. Yet, she drops names like Eliot Spitzer and Mark Sanford into the plot (are we really going to remember these details of hookers and hikes in 2020?). For me, Weiner committed an unpardonable sin by killing off a child 2/3 of the way into the chick-lit story. Granted, said child was not a main character and was just a blip in the storyline-- but then why did you need it, Jennifer, why??? You let little Joy survive and thrive in those Cannie Shapiro books. As my son would say, "I'm mad at you."

Emily Giffin appears to be trying to leap from chick-lit fame to (slightly) more serious fiction with "Heart of the Matter". The arrogance of some of the central characters kept me from settling into the book. I wanted repercussions, consequences, and punishment for the blatant infidelity (come on, isn't someone going to report this to the Board of Ethics??). I wanted to support the single mom, but she kept insisting on making ridiculous decisions (hey, how about being there for your son instead of texting away to his doctor?). I simply wanted everyone to be on better behavior. If Valerie had just followed her gut and not allowed her six-year-old son to go to a sleepover birthday party at the house of adults she didn't know, none of this would have happened. Cowboy up, Val; it's time to start pointing the finger of blame at yourself.

Sigh. Why can't authors write the plots I want them to follow? I want my chick-lit to be light, sweet and airy, a nice literary dessert.

(I wonder how much longer I can avoid "The French Lieutenant's Woman"? Didn't I read it in college or something?)

Then We Came to the End, Joshua Ferris

Sometimes it's good to live under a rock.

"Then We Came to the End" was published when my twin sons were eight weeks only. I didn't read much of anything in 2007. I missed any buzz about Joshua Ferris, which allowed me to see this book at my parents' house this summer and think, "Ooh, cool yellow book with bubble writing on the cover". The National Book Award emblem legitimized it as a worthy balance to my summer reading to date.

Every once in a while, one of my reading quirks pay off. Take my need to finish any book that I start. Sure, there are plenty of books that I plugged through, sighing happily when I finished the final page. But then there are books that start to pick up for me 100, 200, even 300 pages in, and those final pages make up for the laborious first.

So it is for "Then We Came to the End". Based on the cover blurbs alone hyping the humor, I expected this to be a funny, you're-going-to-laugh-out-loud book. I had read one review likening it to "The Office", so I had Michael, Dwight, Jim and Pam in mind. I had expectations of greatness, given the literary accolades. After a few pages, I got into the quirky rhythm of the narrator. 50 pages later, I was wondering when the action would happen. I'll admit, I read while I also reminisced about life before the dot.com bubble burst, my fun work friends from then, my work colleagues who provided the material for our banter, and that whole life-before-kids time. Suddenly, I was on page 197.

I must need a traditional story at some point to reel me in, and Lynn is the character that brought me back (even after the narrator regained control). Her struggle of maintaining her professional standing in the office, keeping her company afloat, and dealing with personal battles all injected a dose of reality. While it took several nights to plod through the first half, I flew through the final half (pausing only once to google the whereabouts of a former colleague who is most likely to play the role of Tom in this book).

PS to Brendan: Ferris' follow up book, "The Unnamed", looks to be one that should go on my books-that-Kerry-can-never-read shelf on Goodreads.

Kerry's Cringe-worthy Summer Reading Program Confession

Confession time has come, as per official rule #9.

No, it's not the time when I crawled under booths at the Hanover Mall's Friendly's Restaurant to greet my favorite librarian. I was four or five, and it was not summer, and that was probably more endearing than crippling (not counting the waitstaff and other customers that I bumped into).

It's also not the fact that, as an elementary school student, I regularly participated in two summer reading programs, at the local Duxbury Free Library and our other family favorite, the Tufts Library in Weymouth. That I did not allow myself to "double dip" books (marking them as read on both library's logs) is more obsessive than embarrassing.

It's not even that time four years ago when my then 4 1/2 year old daughter refused point blank to sign up for the summer reading program and I signed her up and did all the recording for the summer simply because it's what I wanted to do.

No, to truly experience my monumental summer reading program fail you have to go back to the Summer of 1982 when I was 9 1/2 years old and entering fifth grade. The theme had to do with pirates and seeking treasure. Each participant wrote his/her name on a brown paper ship that hung all summer long in the children's library. Every time you brought your reading log to the librarian, she would count the number of books you had read since the last visit and staple the corresponding number of gold paper coins to your ship.

As luck (!) would have it, my ship hung smack dab in the middle above an aisle of books. As the summer continued, I realized that adults had to duck under my cascade of coins to enter the stacks. My luck continued, as there were several mustard yellow foam cushions at the end of each aisle, including "mine". By the end of July, my favorite thing to do in the library was to sit on those foam loungers and "read" (aka, wait for adults) and listen in to what adults said when they'd pass under the S.S. Kerry. "Wow, look at all the coins", "That kid must love reading", "What a lot of books!". By early August, I had visions of having such a long trail of coins that even kids would have to duck. I was in gold coin ecstasy. I was ridiculous.

Fortunately, no one (parent or child) took me behind the library to give me the trimming down that I deserved. I never witnessed anyone grabbing streamers of coins off my ship, but I am certain (and even, in retrospect, hope) that it happened. While I have the utmost respect for children's librarians, and especially those who worked then at the DFL, I suspect (and, again, hope) that when they realized my sinister plot, they failed to credit my ship with the correct number of coins.

Instead of being forced to walk the literary plank, the 1982 reading program ended, peacefully, with the customary ice cream party. By the start of school, the children's room was stripped of pirate ships and coins...and I returned to being a regular reader at the library once again.

With "Franny and Zooey," Brendan achieves a pitiful Two

The song that played on my life soundtrack as I finished my second book

As my sister continued her Herculean effort to read every hastily written book about a zany-gal-who-just-can't-figure-it-out-but-nonetheless-wears-expensive-shoes, I strategized and selected a bunch of slim books to burn through while “Lonesome Dove” lumbered on. Various works by Sandra Cisneros, Woody Allen, and Daniel Woodrell begged to help staunch Kerry's onslaught. But Larry McMurtry pulled a fast one on me and all of the sudden “Lonesome Dove” became unputdownable. Gunfights, grueling journeys, abductions, revenge, finding inner reservoirs of strength – what more could I ask from a summertime read? At the same time the supposedly “fast” read I had chosen, “Franny and Zooey,” seemed plodding and dense. Why would I want to untangle Zooey’s theories on theology when I HAD to find out whether July Johnson was ever going to realize Ellie* was just no good for him?

But I chipped away at “F&Z” and finally finished it last night. At times it seemed like I was reading a play - all of the characters speak in long soliloquies where they espouse their different points of view and not an awful lot “happens.” Maybe I felt this way because Zooey, with his world-weary misanthropy at age twenty-five, wouldn’t seem out of place in a Neil LaBute or David Mamet production. And I also had the disconcerting experience of playing “spot the reference” where books and movies I had enjoyed in the past were overshadowed by the debt they owed to Salinger (“The Royal Tenenbaums” took a severe hit on this front, what with its family of geniuses, suicidal brother, and significant use of bathroom smoking). But in the end, I was glad I read it, and it only strengthened my hope that J.D. Salinger (as well as Harper Lee) has a vault full of completed manuscripts that will all be published as soon as the legal paperwork has been completed by his estate.

*Oh, man, I know she’s had a tough life and not a lot of opportunities, but I really hate Ellie.

The Lure of the Bargain Book: Maneater, Gigi Levangie Grazer

I am a sucker for the bargain bookstore (as is my credit card). My first job in Boston was located across the street from a Buck-a-Book store, and I hauled many a heavy bag laden with books all the way to my apartment behind the last stop on the B Line. I was a charter member of the PaperBackSwap, until I wearied of receiving smoke infused paperbacks that had taken a spill in the tub. Building 19 is great for children's picture books. I've browsed through most of the bargain bins in my area, but had never looked in the book aisle at Ocean State Job Lot...until now.


Since most of my pop culture references are pre-1990, when I read the title, "Maneater", my brain immediately backtracked to Daryl Hall and John Oates. (I recorded it off the radio onto a mixed tape. It probably took me a whole afternoon of circling the dial to finally hear it. Now, I could find and download the song in about 3.2 seconds). The author, Gigi Levangie Grazer, rang no bells. I almost kept walking, but then spied the $1.99 price tag. The cashier exclaimed that it was "freakin' funny", all her friends liked it, and "like the only book she, like, ever read that, like, the teacher didn't make her"...and asked if I had seen the movie?


So then I learn that this book, known (apparently) to all 18-year-old girls in the greater Kingston, MA area, was made recently into a Lifetime movie starring Roseanne's Second Becky (ok, Sarah Chalke from Scrubs, but she'll always be the replacement to me). A bargain book that was made into a straight-to-DVD movie, loved by teen girls? Aren't these all signs telling me that this will be the worst chick-lit book ever??

Never one to run from a challenge, I bought the book and read it. Guess what? I smirked a few times and laughed out loud once. The hours that I was awake that night waiting for my kids to settle down and fall asleep just flew by (or perhaps the absence of a working clock kept me ignorant). I am neither a better nor a worse person for having read "Maneater". I am, however, up a book in the log. As an apology for such an easy read, I ordered the movie from Netflix and will lose at least two nights of reading time in order to watch all 172 minutes (falling asleep while viewing it and waking up hours later will also suffice).

(Is anyone else wondering if Brendan's latest strategy involves stockpiling read books in an attempt to race ahead in the final day of our countdown?)

American Music, Jane Mendelsohn

"American Music" is on all the Summer 2010 must read lists (despite having been published only in June), so I happily grabbed it at the library. Having lived near the Zildjian Company for most of my life, I was intrigued by how the story of the company and its mystique would be incorporated into the fictional tale.

I'm not a book club kind of person, but every once in a while I read something that I really want to dissect with someone else. Jane Mendelsohn's "American Music" is precisely that kind of book. Flowing between characters living across 400 years of time, each glimpse into their story is like correct fitting a piece into a 5000 piece puzzle. (And, like starting such a large puzzle, starting to read this book is a bit tedious, until you get into the rhythm of the plot).

While I knew these stories had to intersect eventually, Mendelsohn's writing is so strong that it makes the reading of a somewhat obvious plot still enjoyable. The ending wasn't quite what I expected (or wanted), but that in itself only emphasized the underlying (unpreachy) message of the book, that life isn't always what we want or expect, but the act of living that life matters.

Start Reading, Brendan!

The reading challenges have begun! I've already checked to make sure "The French Lieutenant's Woman" is available at the library and, instead of placing it on hold, am playing it cool in the hopes of finding it in the stacks tomorrow. I'm counting on my local readers not to rush the doors tomorrow morning to check out the only copy. (I think I'm safe. I'm sure the librarians there have my back.)

Brendan and I have actually discussed the reading challenge quite a bit (despite Verizon's insistence on dropping most of our calls). Strategically, of course it makes sense to give him something wordy; attack his weakness. I'm so comfortable with my lead, however, that I think the other obvious choice is appropriate: chick-lit.

So, Brendan, welcome to my world away from reality. Chick-lit is total escapism for me (the fact that I even use the term "chick" says it all). Honestly, I was once the most high-brow of high-brow readers. I didn't read for pleasure, I read to be better. Otherwise, what was the point? Then, I hit a bit of a rough patch in life and, somehow, bought my first fluff book. It was the perfect antidote for what I needed. Life was complicated enough, why not indulge once in a while?

I will be the first to admit that I'm more than a bit addicted to chick-lit. I'm annoyed that Meg Cabot hasn't written more "Heather Wells" mysteries. I've signed up for email alerts for new titles by Julie Kenner. I'm also a bit embarassed by my fall from literary grace. My "good books" are in bookcases in our bedroom (shelved appropriately by fiction, non-fiction, British lit, poetry, short stories, anthologies, and plays). You have to make your way up to our office to find my secret collection. I may be out of the chick-lit closet, but only by a step or two.

Now it's time to sully my brother. Tonight he told me that he's read chick-lit before, "The Devil Wears Prada" and hated it. Well, guess what? So did I! He also claims that we're polar opposites on the reading spectrum, but I know, deep down, that there's a part of him that is ready for my genre (ask him about Agatha Christie and Martha Grimes).

Brendan has made Chicago his home for the past 12 years, living his dream. As such, it's only fitting that I suggest that he read "Bitter is the New Black", the first in a series of memoirs by Jen Lancaster, a fellow Chicagoan. I, unapologetically, love Jen Lancaster. Like Brendan, she has chosen Chicago to be her home. She loves movies and television-- even dogs (I'm sure they've passed each other by at the dog park). She's even funny, like my brother. Jen (I think I can call her Jen) isn't traditional chick-lit; she's all about self-deprecating humor, which fits my brother to a T. Quite honestly, I don't understand why their lives haven't crossed paths yet. I mean, she thinks things up like this. Shouldn't they be friends?

In true older sister fashion, I've gone ahead and ordered Jen's first book for Brendan (because it's not enough to suggest it, I've gone ahead and made the book appear in Amazon magic at his door). I suspect that in September, we'll be scooping ice cream together while he begs to borrow the rest of her work.

So, B, while you wait until the book arrives at your door on Friday, take a sneak peek at Jen. I know you'll laugh.

Are You Kidding Me?

On Saturday, I was beset by an attack of food poisoning. As I crouched by my toilet, my stomach being rooted through as thoroughly as if it were Franny's purse and the lox and muenster sandwich I had eaten for lunch was her elusive Kleenex,* I couldn't help but be buoyed by the thought that being sick would give me more reading time to catch up to Kerry. Well, I might as well have wished for time to stop. Apparently, my sister's competitive streak has pushed her to maintain the punishing pace of two books a day. Meanwhile, like a sap, I stick with my beloved behemoth "Lonesome Dove," which, let's be honest, I won't be finishing any time soon.

So this leads me to change my strategy. I have decided to parse out "LD" in the hopes of reading shorter books in the interim. As my sister none-too-delicately said to me last week, "I want to win, Brendan, but I don't want to win in a landslide." Well, Kerry, I don't want to be covered in the rubble of chick-lit that you're tearing through (or, as my father described them, "Tillie the Divorcee Meets A Dentist," which sounds like a movie Ginger Rogers forgot to make). So that leads me to my first selection for Kerry this summer, "The French Lieutenant's Woman," by John Fowles.

Let's be honest, my main reason for picking this book is its length and the density of its language (mere stumbling blocks for my workhorse sister). But I didn't want to pick a book as punishment (in that case, I would have picked "An American Tragedy" or "A House for Mr. Biswas"), and I loved the intricate plotting and characterizations when I read it a few years ago. Plus, it has a dual love story as its center (chick lit!) and part of it takes place in England (Austen! Brontes!), so I consider that an olive branch to Kerry and hope that she remembers I at least tried to pick a book she would enjoy when she makes her selection for me.

*This is a highbrow reference to "Franny and Zooey," one of the shorter books I'm cheating on "Lonesome Dove" with in order to catch up to my sister.

In Defense of Reading (The Bachelorette Party, Karen McCullah Lutz)

You'll all be happy to know that my daughter is finally on antibiotics, so chances are high that she (and I) will sleep soundly tonight. Besides, I didn't make it to the library today and am all out of a fresh supply of chick-lit.


But, really, why the fuss over whether I'm reading high- or low-brow literature? Last night, my husband watched "Ice Road Truckers". I read 100 pages of "The Bachelorette Party". What's the difference? It's not as if either of us made the world a better place through either choice.


Before settling on a channel, I noted that we could have selected "10 Things I Hate About You" or "Legally Blonde", or even streamed "The Ugly Truth" via Netflix. (God Bless America) In honor of these myriad entertainment options, all in which Karen McCullah Lutz shares screenwriting credit, of course I had to finish her book.

I love when screenwriters decide to write a novel (I'm sure Brendan will chime in with several examples). The book reads just like the movie would, with just a little extra description. The pace is fast, the story moves along quickly and, even if you're not really into the plot, you know you're just racing toward closure. "The Bachelorette Party" is completely unapologetic and never once attempts to be any more than a quick, fun read. Really, with jacket blurbs from Heather Graham and Selma Blair, how could you possibly take it seriously?

Don't Even Think About It, Lauren Henderson

Starting in the late 1970s, my whole extended family gave my grandparents (the heads of a family of nine children) a week on Cape Cod. I use the word "gift" loosely, as we ultimately all joined them in this small cottage for a week of family frenzy. Summer after summer, we returned to this same cottage that, eventually, began to feel like our own. Nothing changed about the cottage (until it practically tumbled into the sea, but I'm ignoring that part), except what books you'd find on the shelves. The titles were rarely anything a 12 year old would recognize and fell heavily in the Rosamunde Pilcher and WWII varieties, neither of which held my interest. Every summer, however, once I depleted those in my own stack, I'd find at least one book that could help pass the time once the sun went down and the card playing started. There's something to be said about books you choose simply because they are there for the taking as opposed to books for which you have some set expectations.

Brendan reading on the deck, 1980 or 81, Dennis, MA

This little vignette has little to do with "Don't Even Think About It", other than it was within my reach early yesterday morning when my daughter finally fell back to sleep after a long night of being sick. I didn't want to risk waking her by leaving to grab my book from the other room, and this was what was available. By the time my daughter was in a deep sleep, I was halfway through, and managed to finish all but the final pages before my younger boys woke up. (Have you realized now that I am the world's most finicky sleeper?) Other than the presence of air conditioning and adult responsibility, it was just like those summer nights on the Cape. Well, almost. Honestly, I really have nothing to say about "Don't Even Think About It", other than the fact that I read it. I apologize in advance for the next book on my log, because my daughter didn't sleep well last night either.

A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents, Liza Palmer

A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents: how can you not read a book with this title?

I usually don't browse the new release section in the library. Part of the reason for this is that in the old library building, new releases were shelved in a small room behind the main circulation desk, requiring a slick side move around the cart full of book returns. It felt a little too clandestine for me. Nowadays, with my significant Amazon.com addiction, I've usually already purchased and read the new books of interest to me. Choosing library books means that I sit my daughter in her favorite chair in the adult fiction section, tell her to stay and read right there, not to move, then spend 90 seconds doing the library version of "Supermarket Sweep".

However, I'm trying to limit my expenses, so yesterday afternoon I did a quick perusal of the new releases and wound up with Liza Palmer's latest title. After doublechecking that I was, in fact, in the fiction new releases (because, otherwise, ick), I grabbed it before the man next to me could get to it first (just in case his browsing in the large print section was a complete ruse).

I'd never read Liza Palmer until now, but with a cover blurb from Meg Cabot and a cutesy cover image (replicated not once, but twice, on the rest of the jacket; maybe marketing will splurge on a future edition), I had already cast some judgment. By the second chapter, Palmer had left the traditional chick-lit outline (girl meets boy, girl meets ex-boy, girl chooses 200 pages later) and turned the focus to family relationships. After their father abandons the family following years of infidelity, Huston, Abigail, Grace and Leo form a tight circle around their mother, who later dies in a freak car accident. Grace, 30 at her mother's death, abruptly severs all contact with her siblings only to reunite with them five years later, around their estranged father's deathbed.

Despite some weak writing and loose ends that tied all too neatly together, I found myself really drawn to the characters. Huston's need to do the right thing as the oldest child resonated with me. I related to Abigail's frantic multitasking of being daughter-wife-mother, especially when plans didn't go as intended. I just plain liked Leo. And while I couldn't understand why Grace made certain choices, I still wanted a happy ending for her (delivered no fuss, no muss).

Most of us won't have to deal with the extremes presented in "A Field Guide", but neither are we immune to the complexities of mourning a sudden death or grieving a loss with mixed emotions. Palmer addresses what it's like to be do this in your 30s, when you have adult responsibility but have not yet lost the knee jerk reaction to childhood angst--but with enough lightness and fluff to keep the reader out of therapy.

My Summer with Julia, Sarah Woodhouse

Honey.
Molasses.
Turtles.
A still pond.
My daughter cleaning her bedroom.

These are all things that move faster than the plot of "My Summer with Julia".

Don't get me wrong, it's not that I didn't like the book; I felt for Annie and had some curiousity about whether she would ever resolve her feelings about her childhood friend, Julia. We all have best friends from growing up from whom we've drifted; we can imagine how it might feel to suddenly be informed that this person has died and has left a locked box to you in the will. I simply wanted more to happen in the 10-15 minute increments that I have to read. I needed to feel like I had made some progress in the story, something that would make me want to pick the book up a few hours later. The central secret of the plot-- what did child Julia do-- is obvious to the reader in the early pages, yet not officially revealed until the final chapters. As I turned each page, I wondered if we were finally going to get to the meat of something. Would Annie share the contents of the box with anyone? Would she learn more about Julia's life after their friendship ended so abruptly? Would she track down Alain? Would she pay attention to her kids? Her sister? Her husband?

Ultimately, "My Summer with Julia" is about precisely that: one specific summer. For those readers who like to live in a character's mind, this one's for you. Otherwise, keep browsing.

Seven Year Switch, Claire Cook

All hail, the summer beach read. I raise my sunscreen and tip my SIGG of water to you.

Seven Year Switch did not disappoint me as a fun summer read. You can read any number of reviews here, here and here, so I'm going to jump straight to my favorite character: T-shirt Tom. Tom is a student at a "Lunch Around the World" class held at the community center (and led by the story's main character, Jill). His t-shirts sport messages like, "TUNE IN TOMORROW FOR A DIFFERENT SHIRT" and "I'M NOT GETTING SMALLER, I'M BACKING AWAY FROM YOU". All we know about Tom is that he wears these t-shirts and has thick glasses always smudged with fingerprints.

Although most of his classmates are senior citizens, my image of Tom is that he's a first generation gamer, now in his 40's, and works at night in his basement office testing new video games and sharing trade secrets with other RPG players in chat rooms. Tom probably rolls out of bed around 11:45 each morning, giving him plenty of time to make it to this noontime class that includes lunch (and leftovers, so dinner too). He doesn't know it yet, but a few months from now he's going to realize that his new friends, the seniors, are tired of playing Wii at the senior center but have no interest in expanding their own gaming to Mortal Kombat or Grand Theft Auto. Tom will work with this small test group and produce "Boomer Games" with the tag line, "it's not your grandchild's video game". He'll make a bundle, allowing him to make a substantial, yet anonymous, donation to the town to renovate their aging senior center and housing project. Tom's good like that.