#58 - Labour Day

I've been waiting to review Labor Day until my interview with Joyce Maynard was posted over on our company blog, The Savvy Reader. Then, all of a sudden weeks go by and I haven't managed to type a single word let alone post any book reviews. Thankfully, I'm only behind by about three reads so it's not that bad.

The novel takes place in a small New Hampshire town during a moment when all of the main characters are on the cusp of major changes in their lives. As the hot, uncomfortable last weekend of summer begins, Henry, who's thirteen, and his mother, Adele, head out to get school clothes. For most, it's an everyday kind of errand, for Henry and Adele, it represents a rare moment when she actually leaves the house.

While they're at the store, Henry comes upon a bleeding, baseball cap-wearing stranger who asks for a ride home. Turns out Frank's an escaped prisoner who takes refuge (and hostages if we're being entirely correct) at Adele's. There's an element of suspended disbelief here, it's Maynard writing the novel, and not McEwan, and while Frank might have committed a crime to get in jail, it's never apparent he actually belongs there. There's an element of Shawshank to his backstory, which gets unraveled over the course of the time he spends purposefully sequestered with Henry and Adele at their house.

The tumultuous relationship between Henry and his parents (who are divorced; his father's remarried with a stepson and a new daughter) is necessarily exacerbated by Frank's illegal presence. But not in the ways that you would expect. They're not in danger. And the fear comes from the impending change more so than anything else. Maynard told me that she wanted to write a novel that looked at how this thirteen-year-old dealt with the sex lives of his parents -- while he's on the cusp of his own. This journey, or realization might be a better word, starts Henry off on the dangerous path that forces the unlikely situation to its necessary conclusion.

There's an urgency to Maynard's novel that echoes its tight timeframe. The major action of the book all takes place over those few days and the constraints of time drive the story. In turn, this makes the novel utterly readable -- the perfect title to sit down for a couple of hours in an afternoon to finish, a book utterly meant for a "book-a-day" challenge. In some ways, the book reminded me, in setting only, to John Irving and Elizabeth Stout; story-wise, there's a little of Ann Patchett's Run in this book. Overall, the achingly and lovely last passages of the novel brought tears to my eyes.

Bits And Pieces Of The Past

It's been a busy Saturday. I got up early with my RRHB as he went off to work for about the hundredth weekend in a row (save for the last one when we were in NYC), watched Swingtown, which I'm enjoying more each week, ate some yoghurt, and decided it was now or never in terms of the gardening.

Wait. Does everyone know how much I hate gardening?

K.

So it's me against the weeds that grow in between the gross patio stones on our front yard. The outside of the house will be the last to get fixed up and because I never see it when I'm inside and the renos are making me mental, I don't usually bother with it. Like, at all. But today I was out there pulling all the weeds out and sweeping. And then I tackled some of the back where our neighbour had planted some vegetables. Seeing as I want to eat the lettuce, cucumbers and tomatoes, I thought I had better do some weeding out there too. I lasted about an hour and a half, all tolled. By then I'd had enough.

Back inside to make some toast while I watched the bits of The Departed that I like. At which point I felt guilty for watching TV and started puttering.

Wait. Does everyone know that I love puttering?

I've been trying to search down some old writing to see if there's any value in trying to finish the two serious books I started before the one that's currently with my editor friend. But since I have only hard copies of everything, and they're spread from here to who knows where, I went through piles of old writing today. Here are some things I discovered:

1. The clinical "our plan" notes from my shrink when I was bonkers about 10 years ago. They are awesome. From basic things like: "try to eat 3x/ day" to "if feeling very depressed, out of control, suicidal, etc, come to Emergency Department." Can I just say that about 2 weeks later I took a whole pile of sleeping pills, not to kill myself, but simply because they had stopped working and I wanted nothing more than to sleep. It's the craziest the prednisone has ever made me. Coupled with my own inner-wackiness, I am lucky to a) have survived and b) to have had a doctor that was kind enough to give me this plan that pretty much saved my sh*t at the time.

2. A note from Deborah who used to run Chicklit.com that says: "I thought you'd toss off a couple of pages, not sweat blood onto paper." Aw. Oddly, I have no record of what I actually wrote to illicit such a reaction.

3. A really excellent map to my cottage.

4. A recipe for vegan banana blueberry muffins that I will give to Sam for Sadie.

5. "The Night, The Porch" by Mark Strand that contains these lines: "...why even now we seem to be waiting/For something whose appearance would be its vanishing..."

6. The photocopy of a print from Alciato's Book of Emblems that represents Hope and Nemesis that says the two "are together at the same time upon our altars, clearly that you may not hope for that which is not lawful."

7. A print-out of this article from the NY Times because it mentions my RRHB. I have to admit, I recycled this -- there's an online archive.

8. The "how to retire rich" article that our old VP from the Evil Empire photocopied and gave to everyone in the department before he set up a meeting with his insurance broker. He was an awesome boss. The article is full of things he's underlined and notated. I wish I were lying.

9. The YES checklist. A 12-step program for writers and other bits of wisdom for scribes. And a note that Peter Mansbridge was born in Churchill, Manitoba and this quote: "I'll never lie to you but don't think that means I'm telling you the truth." My take-home from a day-long writing seminar.

10. "Art," Ken Kesey said, "is a lie in the service of the truth." Don DeLillo: "Every sentence has a truth waiting at the end of it and the writer knows when he finally gets there. On one level the truth is the swing of the sentence, the beat and the poise, but down deeper it's the integrity of the writer as he matches with the language."

A Not-Quite There Poem

I've been going through old writing today and picking up threads of stories that I had always meant to finish. Just typed an email to a friend saying that now that I've finished one book I honestly think that I'll be able to finish another and another. But perhaps the sunshine and free time are making me a bit euphoric. Here's an old poem that I've been rewriting this afternoon.

Churchill

He pulls me away, with
a voice that equals your own,
strips you clean,
and leaves me knowing
incomparable middle class suffering.

Stands there with a strength
that comes from foreign places,
with names I can’t countdown,
places in the mine, places
where I have not yet spent time.

The next one had a reedy voice,
shiny shoes, short tie, lively banjo.
I couldn’t get that song out
of my head, enduring
train ride, a long walk, a whistle.

The fitness in his hands,
cracked, scared, calloused,
that when they touched me,
bear me to run away, a place
by the river, sweater that wasn’t mine.

Another Saturday

My RRHB is working again today. And I was going to spend today making a list of all the things I wanted to bring to Paris, but I was going to try to pack lightly, a couple of good skirts, a cute dress or two, and that's about it. That leaves more room in the suitcase for items to bring home. But I haven't written a stitch since I gave the book to my friend in editorial and I've been missing it. Missing the book. Missing the process. But knowing that it's such a mess and needs some outside help. I think she's going to try to get it back to me when we're back from Paris, and then I'll start rewriting like a mad woman until the end of the summer. That gives me three good months before my next internal deadline: September 1st. Now the question is: what do I write until then?

Tired Tuesday Twitters

So, I've become mildly obsessed with Twitter. It's so fun! But it's also kind of addictive. I absolutely love the little updates. But perhaps because I'm wicked tired today (I haven't slept since Sunday night) the whole online world is blurring into one giant fuzzy mess.

Baby steps, right? 4 AM came close to breaking my brain in half after many, many hours of reading, drinking tea, reading some more, closing the light, lying there panicked and awake, until I finally decided just to get up. And while I threw up this morning because I was so tired my whole body was upset, I did manage to get the bits of the manuscript revised enough that I'm only mildly embarrassed to give it to my friend in editorial. She's going to do substantive edits, and then I'm going to rewrite the whole book for the second time. I figure that'll take me until the end of the summer (if all goes according to plan) and then by the fall I'll start preparing myself for the rejection that'll come along with trying to find an agent.

The book is still kind of a mess. There are big problems with it but for now I need someone else's eyes and mind to look at it as a whole and tell me where to go next. Even now, I'm amazed I'm still typing.

The Struggle Of The Everyday March To Nowhere

This morning it was impossible to get out of bed. Last night it was impossible to concentrate. If I didn't know better I'd say I was having a bad disease day, but since the WG is in remission, I can't blame it. Which is too bad, considering I blame the disease for a lot -- like it's another person living inside of me that I can point a finger at and shout: "This, this is all YOUR fault and what are you going to do about it!"

I've been complaining (skip forward those of you who could care less) a lot about being tired. The Super Fancy Disease Doctor has ruled out the disease as the cause. Excellent, yes, but now what? The kidney doctor has always said it's just a modern-day plague. My family doctor (my my it's a lot of opinions, isn't it?) says it's probably the panic that's making me feel so tired. Putting your body through all that flight/fight stuff, the pain in my chest, the constant nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach, means that you're exhausted by the end of each day. And am I ever feeling it this week.

So far this week I've managed two pages of edits and with the two-thirds of my manuscript still to go, I'm already a full week past my deadline. But last night I wanted to burn (virtually) the entire project. Don't worry, I won't, but the urge to press delete and just get on with my life, accept the fact that I'll never publish the damn thing, was great. It was either that or quit my job because I certainly can't do two things at once and this giant split down the centre of my being is perhaps a little overwhelming.

Also, my hip hurts.

Blah complain blah tired blah frustrated blah de freaking blah.

Okay. Now that it's out of my system maybe I just need to go home and have a nap.

What 4AM Looks Like From The Inside Of My Eyeballs

Nada Surf coupled with a decaffeinated latte (it's all it takes) should keep me awake at least until the end of the workday when I will collapse into a lack-of-sleep lump in front of the television.

My deadline highlights the word "dead" if I keep going at this pace; the panic from knowing that I'm nowhere near finishing my edits and the fact that have trumped the "May 1st" from coast to coast is coming back to haunt me. Four weeks and only 80 pages and I have been working, I have. Tonight is the last night before I give away the book to the three other people in my so-called creative group (which is distinct from my writer's group in that it includes a supremely talented artist) tomorrow. Commas will be the death of me. So will run on sentences and a change in narrative voice. I want the m/s to hum like the guitar line in "Hi-Speed Soul." I want my friends to enjoy reading the book as much as I love the drum line in "Slow Nerve Action," but I'm afraid the book's more cobbled together at this point than anything else. And staying up until well past the witching hour didn't help.

It's hard to shut off your brain once it starts down a creative path that goes something like this:

1. I've always hated the title I attached to the book from the beginning. It felt bland and kind of meaningless and I've sat through enough publishing-type meetings to know that titles change all the time. Editors change titles too, make suggestions, and often improve what the writer has come up with.

2. Along comes Poetry Month. And catching up with Melanie's lovely blog where she posted this wicked poem that caught my attention. Hallelujah! A new title is born. And yes, I've already phrased my thank you should the book ever, ever be published.

3. But then last night I was reading and rereading the poem and I came upon a whole new structure for the book that will solve all kinds of chronological poems. See, brain, not turning off, and had to crawl out of bed to write it all down. The time I started: 12:30 AM.

4. Also, it's lovely to welcome someone home that you love, which meant that my schedule for the last week, work, home, cat-tending, quick dinner, editing, ragdoll-tv, was blown away. In a good way, meant that I started working late, ate even later, and went to bed well beyond my normal time. For a girl who has always had trouble sleeping, all that adds up to disaster. Oh, and the organic brownies at 10 PM didn't help. But they are so good. So good.

5. Fast forward to 2:30 AM and I'm still writing, soundless because I didn't want to wake up my RRHB who was sleeping in his own bed for the first time in a week. NOTE: the music quest has gone really, really well. So far, I've downloaded some Brian Eno that I quite like, added some world music (Ali Farke Toure), and of course, my new obsession, Nada Surf. NOTE REDUX: My RRHB openly mocked the fact that everyone on this earth has heard of this band except me. Keep the suggestions coming, I love them. It's good to give Wilco a rest every now and again.

6. Now I'm finally back in bed but it's 3:30 AM, just the time when Willie Pep wakes up and decides it's time for him to go outside. Walking on my head, walking on my legs, half-settling on my chest, and I'm out of bed again drinking Sleepytime tea and reading Huckleberry Finn.

7. 4 AM looks and sounds an awful lot like the three hours preceding it. Fluffy duvet, warm socks tucked into jogging pants, lots of deep breaths and I fall asleep finally until 6:55 AM. Now, I can barely keep myself propped up on my desk, but the book is definitely better for it.

Gosh, I've been making a lot of lists lately. TK momentarily, a review of DeNiro's Game, which I loved.

Music To Write To

I am dire need of some new music to write to. Does anyone else out there need a writing soundtrack? I feel like I've played every song in my iTunes 100 times and I'm still coming up short. April as poetry month is totally inspiring me.

I finally tracked down the folder that had all the drafts of the poems I worked on during the one class I took with Ken Babstock, many of which were on the computer that was stolen from our house two years ago. In my insanity, I had printed many, many of them up many times, so at least I've got copies, and I've been going through them tonight. A part of me wants to post all of them, just to see which ones are more successful than others, but I'll exercise restraint and keep going with the poem a day (I missed yesterday, so that's why there are two posted tonight).

The air's warm. The candles smell yummy. We ordered pizza for dinner. And I feel like my fingers could go all night. So instead of posting all of my cycle, 12 poems based on each (you guessed it) month in a year, I give you a highly illegal version of a William Carlos Williams poem that knocks me to my knees every single time I read it:

Nantucket
(William Carlos Williams 1883-1963)

Flowers through the window
lavender and yellow

changed by white curtain--
Smell of cleanliness--

Sunshine of late afternoon--
On the glass tray

a glass pitcher, the tumbler
turned down, by which

a key is lying -- And the
immaculate white bed.

Down To Work

So, it seems I may have committed myself to a completely and utterly undoable goal of having a finished draft of the book (see, see how I'm actually calling it a book instead of a long story) finished by May 1st. Having successfully surrounded myself not only with books, but with other writers, we all seem to be egging each other on in all the good ways. I'm still not convinced that I'll ever finish, but it's nice to not be alone, if that makes any sense at all.

The candle is lit. The email is all caught up. There's t-minus a couple hours until the Oscars. My RRHB has done all the laundry. I had brunch with one of my oldest friends who has just become engaged. I've obsessed over a certain something. Repeated"The King of Carrot Flowers" about sixteen times. This lead to a little dancing around my writing room. And read two stories in My Mistress's Sparrow is Dead, one of which contained this quote from Chekhov:

Repeated experience, and bitter experience indeed, had long since taught him that every intimacy, which in the beginning lends life such pleasant diversity and presents itself as a nice and light adventure, inevitably, with decent people -- especially irresolute Muscovites, who are slow starters -- grows into a major task, extremely complicated, and the situation finally becomes burdensome.

Perhaps it's time to start?

Creative Writing Class Fall 2007

What a boring title. But what an exciting class. After working so hard on my own with Humber last year, I'm kind of excited to get back into a classroom scenario this fall with my Novel Writing Master Class through the University of Toronto. It's a shame that I can't find enough inspiration to work on my own but find that the structure of a class really helps in terms of deadlines and actually getting things done.

(Case in point was this weekend where we spent all weekend lounged on the couch [with the exception of hospital visits and Thanksgiving turkey and a quick jaunt to the Farmer's Market] watching movies, TV, and HBO-Showtime dramas).

Anyway, David Gilmour is our teacher, and judging from the first class, he'll be using the same teaching techniques with us as he did with his own son. I was really impressed with the first class and was even inspired to write a truly terrible first draft of a short story (Gilmour has 4 rules; one of which is to allow yourself the latitude to write very badly) that I shared with a couple friends last week.

Even though I won't get to workshop as much of the book as I did at Humber, but I'm really looking forward to getting a group's feedback about the story.

Are You Calling Me A Superromance?

Okay, so I have a confession to make. My mother loved to read Harlequin romances. We often made trips to the mall with her to peruse the romance section of the local Coles so she could pick up one of her books. I couldn't tell you what the attraction was for her as I was still a teenager when the car accident happened and never got to ask, but I do know that I sure as heck read a lot of them over her shoulder growing up.

I mean what pre-teen girl didn't read Sweet Valley High and its equivalents? And if was I was feeling particularly brave, I'd dig out the one I half wrote in Grade Eight while I should have been doing math. It's hilarious. Seriously. And then I got all snotty and stuff, did two fancy pants degrees, discovered all kinds of different books in my adolescence and never really looked back.

So when a friend of a friend kindly put forth my name for freelancers to write some marketing copy for one of the 1200+ books they put out during the year, I sort of jumped at the chance. I mean, my mother would be so proud of me, and sort of tickled pink, I think. And I've handed in my first assignment, which went okay. I'm working on my second right now and I know that a third is on the way. Fingers crossed I can balance out the throbbing loins with the love of their lives enough to entice people back into the fold. All in all, it's the most fun I've had writing for pay in ages. I enjoyed the heck out of it even if I'm still sort of stretching my fingers in terms of getting the right tone and quality of copy.

Come on, confess, you've read at least one in your lifetime, right?

Morning Bells, Awkward Spills And Writing What Not

The bells on the church just behind our house just rang out. It's an odd sound to hear in this day and age, and it always makes me think that I'm living somewhere else where church bells still ring for specific reasons. As they went off at 9:39 AM, it's hard to say, but I'm assuming they're just testing out the bells for some sort of celebration or for tomorrow's services.

Anyway, I half-fell off my bike on Thursday morning on the way to work, and it was more of a shock to my system than anything. And, as much as I complain about the idiotic people in cars downtown when you're a biker, this time, this almost-accident was entirely my fault. I was going the wrong way up a one way street when a car came roaring around the corner, not expecting me, who was biking a bit too far away from the curb as well. I live in a quiet (for the most part) neighbourhood and it's rare that any car turns on to that street for the two minutes I'm actually on it before getting to College Street. Regardless, I had to slam on my brakes, and it's a slight downhill so I was going really very fast, and almost toppled over my bike. I slammed my arm on the handle bars and skidded my feet to stop myself from crashing into the back of his car. But what hurt the most was I jammed my poor tragic hip so hard that it brought tears instantly to my eyes. Oh, it hurt.

I limped while peddling the rest of the way to work and then was sore all day and most of the night, and then didn't bike yesterday, which was okay because I had things to do after work. But after so many months of not being in pain, it's still a shocker when my tragic hip wakes up and says, "Whoa, don't do that to me, come on now!"

However, I've certainly noticed how much stronger I am this summer compared to last. I am doing restorative yoga once a week, swimming like a fish all weekend at the cottage, jumping on the trampoline at least once per weekend, and then biking during the week. I still haven't lost a pound, nuts or no nuts, but I can feel myself have more energy, especially with the swimming. Where I could do one lap in the lake (halfway to the little island and back) kicking with the noodle three weekends ago, I'm now doing two or three, and even floatation device free for one of them. I can make it up bigger hills in the city now, and have more confidence in my step now that my legs aren't so wobbly. Small victories, right?

We're not up at the cottage this weekend, much to my chagrin, but it's also probably for the best. I'm a bit behind in my latest abridgment, and do need to get cracking before my September 1st deadline. I've taken the last week of August off to spend up north with that manuscript and my own story, and I'm thinking about which classes to take this fall at U of T, before I can apply for the Humber School for Writers again in the winter.

It's a long life, this writing life. There are days when it seems forever just to write one sentence or get caught up here, on the blog. I finished my first new freelance assignment, which I'll expand upon once I know it's been accepted, approved and another one's coming. While it wasn't hard per se, it was certainly different, and I'm worried that my tone wasn't quite right and that I haven't done a good job—which are always the concerns when you put virtual pen to paper for someone other than yourself.

Oh, wait, it's even worse when it's for yourself: you're utterly convinced that it's sh*t.

Shhhh

I am kind of excited because it looks like I'll be writing another Classic Starts this year. After I'm finished, I'll have written eight of the abridged classics for kids for Sterling. I'm not sure if they've been announced properly so I won't mention the title, but suffice it to say, it should be a world easier than the last two I wrote.

Write Around Town - March

This month's column is up on Experience Toronto. I was lucky enough to interview Ben McNally about the city's independent bookstores.

Write Around Town Debuts

Lots and lots to update on, not the least of which is one more book down from the 1001 Books list, Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote, a visit to the spa, a night of 24, and two movies (Music & Lyrics and Children of Men).

But for now, if you're at all interested in literary events in Toronto, I've started to write a monthly column for Experience Toronto called Write Around Town. It's the first one, so it's a bit rough around the edges, but I'm excited about it and am looking forward to having something fun to write every month for someone other than myself!

The Soundtrack Of Your Life's Work

One of the suggestions that my mentor came back with in her first comments about finding your voice and getting really into your characters and their story, is to find a piece of music that truly suits what you're writing—something to get your mental juices flowing.

The only thing is, I don't even know where to start. I mean, I've got music, lots of it, that I find inspiring, but nothing that suits the piece. It's set in Ontario at the turn of the century and there's not a single song that screams: "This is your character! Pay attention to me."

In my mind, the closest I've come is Neil Young's "Helpless." I wish I had a list of traditional Irish ballads, that might work, or even if I had an idea of what kind of music was popular in New York City at that time, I could find something that might keep the characters firmly entrenched in the period they're supposed to be existing within.

So now, I've got to do some research on what I should probably find inspiring even before I get inspired to re-write the stories I've already recorded on the page.

On Setting Aside The Ego

Well, the mail carried with it the first of my mentor's comments for my Humber Correspondance program. Daunting would be the word I use to describe it; and even though I know it's necessary to break down every last bit of the work in order to build it back up again, I can't help but feel a bit defeated. Which then pushes me back into thinking about my interview with Wayne Johnston, who said that there's no shame in discovering yourself a reader and not a writer.

And now I've got to spend the rest of the day revising my Classic Starts. Something that's taken me far, far, far longer than it really should.

Brushes With Greatness

Okay, so I'm going to do a six degrees of separation type post, which is not really exciting for anyone, but, well me:

1. Today Madhur Jaffrey is in our offices. She is lovely, delightful and kindly signed some books for me. I am dying to read her memoir Climbing the Mango Trees, which is now on my giant to-be-read pile toward the top right after I finish Before I Wake (am one subway ride away from being done) and after I read Consumption. Anyway, she was a supporting player in last year's sweet Prime with Uma Thurman and Bryan Greenburg (whom I will always refer to as Jake! from my time recapping One Tree Hill for TWoP), which means I'm one degree from both of them, cool eh?

2. Yesterday, my stepmother was sworn in as the Councillor for Ward 10 in Mississauga. It was a very prestigious ceremony with Hazel McCallion, "Madame Mayor" herself in attendance, natch, which means I'm one degree from her as well. In her opening address she laid out her plans for her term: deconstructing the region of Peel, stopping the tax payouts to Toronto (never mind the whole idea that how many Mississauga residents use Toronto roads, Toronto highways, Toronto services while they're at work, but whatever), and continuing to have the cleanest, crime-free city in Canada. You go Hazel; you're a right-winged spitfire of a woman, and even if I don't believe in your policy 100%, I certainly admire your honesty, dedication and servitude.

3. Also yesterday, my online book club had a chat with author Steven Hayward about his first novel, The Secret Mitzvah of Lucio Burke. It's a great read, and my full review is to follow, but when asked if he had a hard time re-writing the novel in a different way (he changed it from first to third person), he said, "The re-write was easy, the write was hard." And it made me heart the book (and its author) even more. It also gives me hope, because the write of any first draft is so difficult at least it's good that once an editor or someone else sees the potential, the hard work of creating the characters and doing the first draft isn't lost time.

4. I have an ARC of Gemma Townley's latest book on my nightstand at this very moment. I bet you are ALL jealous. I have also completed Shopaholic and Baby and Forever in Blue from our spring lists, with full reviews to come once the books are on sale. After reading all three, plus seeing The Holiday, I might be surprised if I don't grow even bigger boobs because of all the estrogen in my system.

Aphra Behn

Is it strange to say that a 17th century woman is one of my heroes? That my goal has always been, just like Behn, to be a woman who makes a living by her pen. And these past few weeks something has actually been happening on that front. A royalty cheque arrived for the first three of my Classic Starts (Little Women, Frankenstein and Robinson Crusoe), and yesterday a cheque arrived from Taddle Creek for my poem "April" that appeared in their last issue.

Getting paid for poetry is awesome. Getting paid for writing I did five years ago is also kind of thrilling. But being able to pay for my Humber course without going into debt? Awesome.

Franken-wha?

I've been abridging classic novels for young people for a publisher in NYC. Over the past three months, I've been re-writing Robinson Crusoe and Frankenstein, as I've stated in previous posts. Well, four months and three days later, I'm finally done--at least I think I am. There still might be changes to my latest draft of Frankenstein, but I sent it off today with the hopes that I've finally captured the spirit of the origial while still fixing the problems the excellent editor over at Sterling identified.

Of the three books I've written for them now, Frankenstein was certainly the most challenging. Mary Shelley's orginial, written from about a half-dozen points of view, often told through the use of the epistolary narrative, and raft with implausible action (all of a sudden Victor has a boat! all of a sudden he's got a pistol, oh no! the monster's totally changed his personality), remains my favourite in terms of how much I loved the story.

Don't get me wrong, Little Women was a book I read and loved as a pre-teen, and Robinson Crusoe gave me good fodder for grad school papers on post-colonialism (cannibals, ahhh!), but Frankenstein, despite its flaws, and in spite of its overbearingly Romantic overtones, remains a delightful, fascinating and ultimately successful book. Not bad for a teenager, that's for damn sure. Well, Shelley wasn't your average teenager, she did shack up with an older man/poet and was born to one infamous feminist (Wollstonecraft) and one a serious, radical thinker (Godwin).

Maybe it's because I admire the circumstances of her life so much, find the romance in the Romantics so utterly enduring, and put Byron on my must-meet list if I could ever time travel. Maybe it's because the precocious nature of the book consistently amazes me, even after reading it half a dozen times. Or maybe I'm still holding the fact that Jo and Laurie don't end up together against Louisa May Alcott. In the end, I'm a bit disappointed in my abridged version, I'm not sure I've done the original justice, but in the end, I hope my editors like it--and don't ask for too many more revisions.