Coming Up For Air

Life in general has conspired to keep me away from writing these past few weeks. I've spent so much time at a keyboard, both at work and then doing freelance, that working for myself was a chore I just couldn't add to the list. In fact, all I've been doing is writing lists that I never seem to finish, items that never seem to get crossed off, organizational tricks that never seem to actually work. So, of course, it's no surprise that I've ended up with a terrible cough just as spring decides to poke itself up out of my garden in the form of tulips.

We've been couch hunting. It's taken weeks. But at last we ordered both the main stage and a love seat on Saturday morning. I think we've been to every single furniture store in the GTA over the past few weeks. The good news is that the deed is finally done and even though we're incurring costs to have our own fabric put on the couch, at least it's what we want. The house is looking so wonderful that it's hard to believe that it's ours -- and it'll seem like a dream come true when we're actually living downstairs and enjoying all of my RRHB's hard work over the last few years.

Annnywaay. I can't seem to finish anything these days. Not a book. Not a project (have you been within earshot of me complaining?). Not a single damn thing. The foggy-headed disease blues are hovering and just knowing that I'll soon be off the prednisone isn't enough to keep me going. Hard work, hard graft, seems all I'm capable of -- and it's a little disappointing to realize that people all around you don't actually see you for who you are. Someone described me as a "work horse" the other day, and I don't know why it caught me in the wrong way. I've always been a hard worker but right now I just don't see the point. I'm not enjoying anything at the moment. My heart's not in it -- maybe that's why the to do list seems never ending. I just don't have the get up and go to actually get up and get it done.

Annywaaay redux. Today I spent some time in the garden. My RRHB laughed when he saw me hauling the bags of composte from the garage. He said, "There's no way you're going to be able to move that dirt." But the sun had worked its magic over the past few days. The top soil was flexible and I did manage to get one part of the vegetable garden turned. Layers of newspaper, more seeds planted (some spinach; we'll see how it does), and five bags of dirt, compost and clay reducer later, I think we might just have something. Now if I could only convince my neighbour NOT to do our front gardening. Last week he severed my enter lavendar plant simply becuause he didn't know what it was -- didn't know that it's meant to overwinter and not be trimmed back to its bare, bare roots. This is the third lavendar plant he's destroyed. We keep telling him. He keeps laughing. As you can tell, there's a language barrier.

What a metaphor for my life at the moment, huh?

#18 - The Good Wife

Relentlessly addictive, that's how I would describe Robert Goolrick's A Reliable Wife. The manuscript sat on my reader for months. Every time I found myself on page one, I quickly switched back to whatever classic I was currently tackling because I knew if I started I wouldn't want to stop. I wanted to wait until I had an afternoon of free time (right, phftt) and be able to read the book. Of course, I happened upon an extra long subway ride (what the TTC being delayed and having problems? Yawn.) Of course, I had forgotten my book. Of course, I was uninspired by the two classics I'm currently reading (Dracula; Tess of the D'Ubervilles). S0 I started A Reliable Wife. And. Couldn't. Stop. Reading.

The novel opens with an older man, described by himself as somewhat past his youth, but rich, so very, very rich. After the deaths of his wife and daughter, and the loss of his errant (and possibly bastard [as in not his]) son, Ralph Truitt stands on the cusp of the new century having written away for a wife. The woman who replied, the beautiful, dishonest, Catherine Land replied, reinventing herself along the way. A tragic accident on the way to the farmhouse puts them both in a precarious situation: Truitt close to death; Catherine entirely dependent upon his kindness once she nurses him back to health. They marry. And an odd, not entirely unromantic relationship develops out of their mutual need. He's rich; she's poor. He wants his son back; she's got a life that needs atonement, and an ulterior motive. As the rest of the novel unravels, these desires push them in different directions, and both Catherine and Pruitt are changed as a result of their union in ways they might not expect. The result is delicious for the reader.

The novel, while a little predictable (I had figured out one of the twists fairly early on), is utterly addictive. It's also terribly sexy -- full of sensual description and rich in terms of the description of physical affection. No one escapes sex in this novel and it makes people act in ways they might not expect. In some cases, sex turns into love, and love is sometimes mistaken for lust -- regardless, the book never shies away from the utterly human ways in which the act defines relationships. Goolrick has full, descriptive prose that sometimes feels a little over the top at times, yet it never overpowers the story. Quite the opposite, it pulls you into the characters even further, allows to to invest in them emotionally, which makes the drama of the last third even more interesting. All in all, I couldn't get enough of this novel.

#17 - The Believers

Before my head almost exploded from far too many rewrites of my latest Classic Start, I finished Zoë Heller's excellent The Believers. Familiar in tone and even basic story to Mark Haddon's similarly good A Spot of Bother, the novel begins with patriarch and left-wing lawyer Joel Litvinoff having a stroke in court. Rushed to the hospital, Audrey, Joel's cranky, opinionated and almost unlikeable wife, joins her children in the vigil by his bedside. Heller uses the traumatic situation to explore the family dynamics between Joel and Audrey, their daughters Karla (married to Mike) and Rosa, and their son Lenny. Each suffering from their own particular brand of unhappiness, the novel pulls the family apart like stringy cheese before she melts them all back again for the final scenes.

Despite the fairly Ann Patchett-like twist that I felt was kind of unnecessary (and that I won't spoil here), I can't think of a book I enjoyed so thoroughly in the last few months. Family drama lends itself nicely to Heller's voice and characterization. And she never shies away from conflict or uncomfortable situations in her novels, the kind of Sunday afternoon family dinners that can be so painful yet necessary are dissected with her clinical eye for weakness and exploited for their dramatic values throughout this novel.

Of the interwoven stories, I enjoyed Karla's the most -- a social worker dedicated to helping others and pleasing her union-boss husband (he wants to have kids; they're trying; then perhaps adopting) -- she begins an awkward, unlikely affair with the owner of the newspaper stand in the hospital where she works. The love affair with Khaled proves a catalyst for Karla to change her life and her evolution was the most satisfying. Not that Audrey's acerbic, sharp-tongued personality wasn't engaging, but it wasn't until the novel explored how she came to love her troubled (drug addicted) son Lenny that she truly felt human to me. The opening parts of the book did a little to set up that side of her, but it was Heller's unwavering honesty about Audrey's maternal limitations that finally brought her into full colour. Rosa and Lenny (the former exploring religion; the latter tumbling back into his heroin habit) also had their time in the narrative sun but, by the end, I just felt Karla's story was the most satisfying.

Annnywaay, small criticism for a book that does just what a literary novel should: create characters that challenge their environment, that evolve throughout the pages, that highlight the particular human problems that modern, Western families face today. A deep-seeded unhappiness guards their every move, despite their apparent affection for both each other (even if that's hard to get at) and for their dying father. He's larger than life, and they're all just trying to escape from his high-afternoon shadow. And regardless of their particular beliefs, whether personal, political, religious or simply philosophical, not a single member of the Litvinoff family survives unscathed from Joel's illness, and nor they should.

#16 - Life Sentences

I have a literary crush on Laura Lippman. Last year around this time, I interviewed her for Another Thing to Fall, the latest novel in her Tess Monaghan series. She answered my questions patiently and honestly (via email), which made me crush even harder. Two weekends ago, mired in the fog of disease and a decided lack of energy, I cuddled into bed with her latest novel, Life Sentences. Her latest stand-alone novel, like What the Dead Know, is also based on a real Baltimore criminal case. In this novel, Lippman mixes it up a bit, however, with her characters -- the main one, Cassandra Fallows, is a writer. And not even a crime writer.

With two successful memoirs behind her, Cassandra's third book, a novel, isn't doing so well. A lonely night on her latest book tour turns up a kernel of an idea: she'll write from truth once again, this time exploring the lives of her childhood friends. One in particular, a woman named Calliope Jenkins who spent seven years in jail for killing her child (but who never admitted the truth to anyone). A platform to explore issues of race, priviledge, memory and friendship, the novel exquisitely circles around itself, mixing in sections of Cassandra's successful books with points of view from other characters, until it reveals the truth.

There are so many reasons why I liked this book -- the insider's perspective on the publishing industry, the fast-paced nature of the narrative, and the rich characterization of both Cassandra and the supporting players. Lippman writes women well without falling into the typical stereotypes that sometimes plague lesser crime/commercial writers. She elevates them, regardless of their damaged state, into real people, and never passes judgement on their habits (alcohol for some; sex for another) and/or motivation unless it's to empower someone by the end of the story. Overall, there's not much else to say except that it's a pretty darn good read.

TRH The Weekend Edition

It seems that the only time I have for writing these days comes during the weekend. I've been working non-stop on my latest Classic Starts manuscript both Saturday and Sunday (of last weekend) and yesterday we spent the day out and about looking at furniture. We are moments away from having the main floor finished (with the exception of the kitchen). The trouble now comes with finding furniture. Every little step (deciding on a wallpaper for the downstairs bathroom, talking about the style of couch that we like) gets us that little bit closer to the goal. But we were both sure tired by the time we got home. I've finished two books (The Believer and Life Sentences), watched a really great movie that I'd love to blog about more fully (The Diving Bell and the Butterfly), and wish that I didn't have work to do so I could get to the more fun stuff. Alas, here I go, back to abridging.

TRH Movie - The Oscar Edition

There's still time, right? Can I squeeze one more movie in before tonight's show? Last week I handed over my Oscar ballot (still humming on my victory from last year) for my work pool convinced that my toonie might as well be lost for good. For some reason, I'm not as excited as I normally am about the Academy Awards. And while I'm enamoured as the rest of the world with the sweetness that is Slumdog Millionaire, the rest of the performances (from what I've seen) are kind of meh.

Actresses everywhere must be clamouring to work with Stephen Daldry. He led Nicole Kidman to her underwhelming The Hours performance that won her statuette and now the same kind of ultra-serious, aided by makeup and dowdiness, performance will enable Kate Winselt to win (if I'm predicting correctly). She should have won for Little Children, she was excellent in that film, but when set against the powerhouse that was Coutillard and La Vie en Rose, you can see why she didn't. This year, the Academy's making it right, even perhaps if it shouldn't -- I mean neither film, The Reader nor Revolutionary Road, is really up to scratch in terms of the best in film for 2008, regardless of what a powerhouse Winset was in either role.

The Wrestler vs Milk. It's a hard one. And one that'll probably bring down my ballot. I adored Milk and even though the story telling was conventional, truly feel it's one of the film's that should be celebrated. The supporting performances are excellent, both James Franco and Josh Brolin deserve nominations, even wins, and neither will get it (Franco wasn't even nominated even though he's now won the Spirit Award) because the steam-rolling, ham-boning (I know, do not speak ill of the dead, I know) Joker will reign supreme. It's not that I didn't enjoy Ledger's performance in the Batman film, it's more the defeat around the reasons why everyone's still talking about it, more about his life and how it ended than his acting. It's one of the same reasons why Mickey Rourke will win, or at least I'm betting that he'll win, not necessarily because Ram was the role of a lifetime, but because it was the role that came around in this point in his career. If I were the Academy, I'd be handing the Oscar over to Richard Jenkins or Sean Penn, but I don't think that'll happen tonight.

I'm babbling, I know. But after watching a pile of movies over the last little while, it's really discouraging to feel that so many are mediocre. I enjoyed The Wrestler (more than my RRHB) and I enjoyed The Reader, but they're kind of like excellent community theatre when placed next to the Maria Callas-calibre showing of some of the pictures from last year, like the aforementioned La Vie en Rose. In fact, the movie I've liked the most over the past few weeks is Ghost Town with Ricky Gervais, sweet, funny, smart, engaging -- all the qualities I look for in a picture. Don't even get me started on Revolutionary Road and how the much the picture ruins the book. That's a different post. But, I will end by saying that I'm going to cheer on Slumdog Millionaire, because the heart in that film, regardless of the fairly typical love story, and its somewhat original, magical storytelling, kept me thinking for days afterward.

The Words That Fill Up A Day

I've been banging on about the great content in Gwyneth Paltrow's Goop newsletters for a while now, and another good one arrived yesterday. And the idea of being "spent" got me thinking about how much information passes me by in a single day of working, reading and generally being on this earth. So I've decided to keep a rough track today of all the things I've done. It's a running commentary that's sort of inspired by Twitter, only with more context:

1. Start the day off by reading Book2Book, a UK trade newsletter, on the blackberry. Am drawn to this article that then sends me off to the Colin Robinson diary that I read yesterday afternoon. Ponder this for a second again over breakfast:

This privileging of the writer at the expense of the reader is borne out by statistics showing the annual output of new titles in the US soaring towards half a million. At the same time a recent survey revealed that one in four Americans didn’t read a single book last year. Books have become detached from meaningful readerships. Writing itself is the victim in this shift. If anyone can publish, and the number of critical readers is diminishing, is it any wonder that non-writers – pop stars, chefs, sports personalities – are increasingly dominating the bestseller lists?

Read a little bit of Gabor Mate's When the Body Says No and start The Master and the Margarita on the way in to work.

2. Read a bit of the Quill and Quire as computer boots up. Glance at Daily Candy, Sweetspot.ca and Shelf Awareness newsletters on the handheld. Simply delete Haro. Shelf Awareness links me to an article on Variety about Pride and Predator. Consistently stunned about this news no matter where it's reported.

3. Work email. Actual work. Check web stats. Check MSN.

4. Learn about the upcoming Updike bio from Mediabistro. (Briefly considered started Rabbit, Run last night in honour of Updike's passing but realized how much I hated it when I tried to read it three years ago.)

5. Read an article as it's posted up on MSN. Put in a missing period.

6. More work email. Meeting about data. More work email. Reading data reports. More work email. Login to both my Twitter accounts. Read the Amazon top 100.

7. Read the daily review over at the new Globe Books section. Am reminding of the best math teacher in the world from high school who actually got me to understand and excel at the subject. And then promptly almost failed in Grade 12 when I got a different teacher who was terrible. Have decided I have severe "arithmophobia." Browse Media in Canada.

8. This is a question I often ask myself.

9. Reading @stephenfry. It's work, honest, we have a book coming out by him this summer.

10. Willa Cather's 100 Year Old Minimalism takes me to Fifty-Two Stories. Am kind of enamoured by the idea of leaving deliberate blank spaces.

11. PW on Fifty-Two Stories.

12. Everywomansvoice via newsletter. Work email. More work email. More more work email.

And that's only until lunch.

#15 - The House of Spirits

Having never read any Isabel Allende before, and knowing how beloved (and lovable the author is; she came into the office about a year ago and wowed everyone) her novels are worldwide, I had earmarked The House of Spirits as a book I assumed I would devour. Yet, I found my attention drifting almost from the beginning and had to work really hard to finish all 433 pages of the book. The epic story of a South American family (Chilean, I'm assuming) who cope with decades of excess followed by the political turmoil that threatens to completely destroy them, it's no wonder the novel is included in the 1001 Books list. It absolutely deserves to be, it's a book full of the wonder and magic that often accompanies Latin-American fiction (dare I say magic realism, dare I? I know, it's painful to do so, I do hate those generic descriptions) and chock full of the kind of strong, independent female characters that are ever-so lacking in the list as a whole.

But as I'm coming to find in my old age, I like cynical, swift prose. Maybe cynical is the wrong word, maybe detached would be better. Regardless, I can see the irony in my even writing this because (as the fellows in my writer's group can attest) I write long, complex and fruity sentences. The longer the better. Annywaaay, Allende's talent for creating gorgeous and alive worlds, from weaving political and social messages into her prose, and for writing love in ways that rival García Márquez cement her place as one of the greats working today. A story of three generations, the novel begins simply, with the arrival of a very special pet (a dog) under very special circumstances. "Barrabás came to us by sea," writes Clara, the spiritual child who eventually marries and whose children end up leading incredible lives.

The story spreads out then as complex as the family tree that serves as its roots. But Clara remains its heart, even as she ceases to grace the pages in her human state. And just as every heart needs a body, the big house in the city that she called home centres the novel in a particular place (that's not to say that a good part of the action doesn't happen in the Trueba's country home; it does). Clara's husband, the formidable and furious Esteban, balances out his wife's more esoteric characteristics and together they live a long (and for the most part happy in a way) life raising their children, and then their grandchild, Alba.

Time winds its way through the pages at first on the edges as the way of life for the family changes little until the country forces change upon them. Communism rises and then falls. Then a dictatorship comes along and destroys what good might be left (as the narrative makes clear), forcing people to flee and the old ways to be lost forever. Through it all, through the rise and the fall of the Truebas, Allende's passionate writing never feels forced, but to me, I wonder if it's all necessary. All of those words, those many, many words. However, I'm going to temper my writing about the book by the fact that my head is foggy, my concentration bogged down by medication and a distinct lack of focus. None of this remains the book's fault. And not once would my sluggish reaction to the book convince me not to pick up another of Allende's novels.

READING CHALLENGES: Two birds with one stone time: The House of Spirits is on the 1001 Books list and its author Chilean, so I'll count it towards Around the World in 52 Books too.

#14 - The Sad Truth About Happiness

First, a confession: I read Anne Giardini's book because I love the title so much that even before I started, I had already made up my mind that I would enjoy the novel. As Maggie, the narrator, tells us from the beginning, she's the sober, well-adjusted middle child caught between two stormy sisters, who has never made a misstep in her entire life. For most of her thirty-two years, she's done the right thing: got good grades, found a stable job (as a mammogram technician), had a few misguided love affairs, and lived her life responsibly. Her older sister Janet and her younger sister Lucy are the drama queens in the family and no one expects Maggie to get up to anything remotely considered wayward. That is until her sister Lucy's ex-lover comes over from Italy to try and take her newly born nephew back with him (I'm not giving anything away; this fact is in the back cover copy!). Maggie's actions are rash and the consequences everlasting.

The Sad Truth About Happiness is by no means a perfect novel. Deeply flawed in many ways, the story feels a little far fetched, too movie-of-the-week, especially when it gets into the meaty middle section. Giardini's writing is often messy at times, she repeats bits and pieces that have no real relevance to the story, and there's a lot of "telling" in this book.

But, by the end I didn't care. I didn't care because life is messy. I didn't care because there's so much heart in this book that it's impossible not to get caught up in Maggie's life, in her insomnia, in the way that she looks at the ideals of happiness that seem to drive our modern society. I didn't care because I was hooked from the very first paragraph. I simply couldn't (and didn't want) to put the book down. Particularly poignant parts of the book are found within Maggie's relationship to and description of her aged parents, their eccentricities and obvious love for one another; of her deep understanding and explanation of how she came to her profession, the clarity and emotion from which she writes of disease, especially cancer; and of the tipping point when Maggie is spurned into action and how she copes with the aftermath.

In the P.S. section of the book, Giardini describes her sister Catherine reading some of her work and exclaiming, "put a fire into it," and you can see the spirited way that the author has interpreted this idea throughout the book. The prose has fire to it and, to add in my own overused cliche, it certainly burns from beginning to end. In the end, I picked up the novel as I said because the title is just so striking and I am so very glad that I did. This is the perfect book for book clubs, for women to hand over to one another over lunch, for best friends to talk about late into the night.

READING CHALLENGES: Anne Giardini is Canadian (and the daughter of Carol Shields) and obviously a woman so I'm counting The Sad Truth About Happiness as the 11th book in my Canadian Book Challenge. And for those of you still looking for titles for your own challenge, it's good to note that Giardini lives (and writes about) Vancouver. The setting is a very real and very solid backdrop for this book in particular. So, two more to go!

TRH Updates - The Pause

This might be the longest I've gone without blogging. Over the past two weeks, I've been tumbled upon by side effects and started to slowly weaning myself down in terms of the prednisone dosage. Hopefully, the world will open up now that I'm not taking as much medicine but the sadness persists regardless. For the most part, I'm finding it hard just to leave my house in the morning. This week was particularly difficult. I've done a lot of crying in my cubicle. It's not normal -- I realize that -- it's all the meds, but it doesn't make the day-to-day any easier. So I've been keeping quiet. I suppose no one wants to hear over and over again how miserable I am in my head. To the outside world, things are grand: work is fine, house is coming along swimmingly, RRHB is well, and the disease isn't killing me at the moment. To the inside world, it's a different story: there's panic welled up inside at the thought of leaving the house, all of television is making me bored, and the billows of depression seem to well up like a Greek tragedy threatening to overtake me entirely. Thankfully, the waves haven't swept me away just yet.

The Quiet -- Just Can't Do It

These days I'm trying to fill up the hours before I turn on myself without the will power of Ed Norton's Incredible Hulk and destroy all the good work of the last few years. The last time I dealt with the predisone crazies, truly dealt with them, it took me a long time to battle back and I think I'm more afraid of the crippling blues than I am of the disease actually killing me.

What's more, I haven't had much to say other than disease-related, general unhappiness, boring blah-de-blahs lately. It's tiring for me; I can't even imagine what it might be like for someone else to read or talk about it. I don't want to leave my house but at the same time I feel trapped. I don't want to talk but at the same time I feel so lonely. I don't want to hang out with my friends but I also don't want to sit around talking to myself all day. I don't want to sit around watching TV but I honestly don't have the energy to do anything else. So before I go absolutely bonkers, here's a list.

1. I learned that my new Classic Starts manuscript needs more work. I actually kind of expected this because it (the book) was hell to abridge and I knew it wasn't quite right when I sent it back. I'm still waiting for the substantive notes from the editor but hopefully they'll come sooner rather than later so I can get back to it.

2. Writing involves confidence that I don't seem to have at the moment. We watched the Joe Strummer documentary and it was excellent -- there was a scene when he was in the studio and said something about how great it feels the first time to do something, the first time you get it down, then you listen to it back and it all falls to shit.

3. My nephew was so tired when we were babysitting this week that he fell asleep watching Wall-E. It was cute.

4. Our kitchen floor has tile. It looks really great. As does all the trim downstairs. We are weeks, not months, away from having a main floor (not a whole kitchen just yet but soon). Today we were looking at carpets and couches. You can imagine my glee.

5. The weather last Sunday was so gorgeous that we walked all the way to Kensington and back, bought some groceries, and the fresh air was constitutionally exceptional.

6. For a girl who hates gardening, I sure am looking forward to growing vegetables. Today I said to my RRHB, "I'm going to need to figure out what seedlings to start soon." Can you believe it?

7. I don't think I've cried this much in a long time. I keep bursting into tears at work. Good thing we have shower doors to close and no one seems to notice how puffy I am.

8. Perhaps Gordon Ramsay does swear just a bit too much. I may need to break up with Hell's Kitchen. The stress of watching the show is unbelievable.

9. Bringing my lunch into work has reminded me how much I do enjoy a sandwich.

10. [This is a rhetorical question]. How does one stop the crazies after they've already begun? I know how to do it but my head is such a mess these days that if one more person asks me for something I honestly might crack in half in front of them. Now that would be a sight, wouldn't it?

#13 - Revolutionary Road

Richard Yates's novel, Revolutionary Road, has been sitting beside my bed for over a week. I'm finished reading it but I didn't want to put the book away. In a way, I sort of felt as though I wasn't quite done with the novel. It's honestly one of the best books I've read in a long time, a definite modern classic, a story with the cold, almost clipped air of Capote with a desperate current of sadness running throughout. I have yet to see the movie and, in a way, even though it's the only reason I've read the book, I don't want to now. I'm too afraid it'll ruin it. Even still, Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet were running through my head as the two main characters: Frank and April Wheeler. I guess that's not to be helped.

As two young people, Frank's just about to turn 30, and April's a few years younger, playing hard at adulthood during the early 1960s, the Wheelers have everything. Two kids, a lovely home on Revolutionary Road, and should, for all intents and purposes, be happy. Yet, they're not, they fight, sometimes for days at a time, and both cling to a sense of unease that bubbles up and surfaces in their actions not only toward one another but to other people in the world. The clinical nature of Yates's prose, his exacting way with words, cuts them down piece by piece, pulling out the human bits within the detrious of their suburban lives. The novel is Mad Men only Frank's not as interesting as Don Draper, which makes it even more tragic, I think. People smell bad in Revolutionary Road; they appear in ways that betray their perfect stone paths and upkept lawns. Life is never what it seems on the surface, not for a single character, and no one survives unscathed.

So, one day, when April hatches a plan, to escape to Paris and start over so that Frank can really find himself, there's a spark of interest and ingenuity to both of their lives. Suddenly, they're better than their neighbours, different, not the same sheep on the commuter train. Only change is hard to make, it doesn't come easily and it never turns out the way you'd expect, especially in this novel. I haven't even seen the picture and I'm going to recommend reading the book first. I simply don't see how it could possibly be any better.

Medicine Makes You Feel 100 Years Old

Between the side effects and the long lists of things that could possibly interact with aforementioned medicines, I feel trapped by all of the modernities that are supposed to be making me better, my life better. Chemical taste in my mouth like a bad song stuck in your head, no matter what you do, you're never rid of it entirely. Woozy, nauseous, hair falling out, puffy cheeks, ever-increasing appetite, tired skin, upset tummy, tired, cranky, the list goes on. And fighting. It seems I just want to fight all the time. Maybe that'll be my superhero power: starting fights.

#12 - Ignorance

The last Milan Kundera book that I read was The Unbearable Lightness of Being. At the time I was living in Banff, Alberta with about six other women in a townhouse that had no furniture barring a really old, uncomfortable couch. We all slept on the floor in sleeping bags, worked awful jobs, drank too much and climbed many mountains (literally). I loved that book. But more I loved the experience of reading that book in that particular time and that particular place. In a way, it's like Melanie pointed out in the comments here a few weeks ago, sometimes the books just choose us.

Kundera's Ignorance takes these themes, or maybe ideas would be a better word, of time and place and how experience is tied explicitly to both, and explores them through two characters returning to their homeland after an extended absence. Irena and Josef run into one another in an airport, both having emigrated from their homeland (Prague) years ago, by chance. They make plans to have lunch the next day to catch up. For both, the return home is bittersweet, political regimes have changed, they've both moved on with their lives, had families, spouses, entire existences outside of the people they've left behind.

Is this right, if I say, "to coin a phrase"? -- "You can never go home again." The saying feels true for so many reasons. The time and the place will never be just the same again, it'll always be tempered by our particular experiences, and the philosophical implications of such, and that's what happens to both Irena and Josef. They feel the need to explain themselves: why they left, why it took them so long to come home, and what their lives turned out to be in their adopted countries. It can't be an easy thing, coming home after years away when everything is different, older, changed, and you somewhat expect it to be the same. Not because of a conscious realization that change didn't or couldn't happen while they were away but more so because it's impossible to imagine how much could be different.

Lives move so slowly in a way. Age catches up with people. Time turns hair gray and adds infinite bits and pieces to memories. But if you go ten, twenty years without seeing a member of your family or your friends, the awkwardness of the reunion will always remind you of how ignorant you are of the day-to-day occurences in their lives. There's no judgment in Kundera's novel about the impact of change for these two characters, in a sense, the narrator's merely observing the moments where they realize the implication of their emigration. For a girl who's always thinking of what it might be like to live somewhere different, it was an interesting book to read, a little bittersweet, and more than a little sad, but wholly fascinating.

READING CHALLENGES: One of the books from the 1001 Books list so I'll cross it off from there. Kundera was born in Brno, Czechslovakia, which is now the Czech Republic, so I'll add him to the Around the World in 52 Books challenge too. It's interesting, to read a book that's about returning to a place that has utterly changed since the collapse of communism. The book honestly made me want to go to Prague and isn't that just the point of my armchair travelling reading?

#11 - Got You Back

Jane Fallon's latest novel, Got You Back, retreads familiar territory -- the novel starts off, like Getting Rid of Matthew, with a cheating spouse (him) and the two women who are left to deal with his emotional wreckage. But even if the situation feels similar, the new novel is wholly different than her first book, the characters are fresh and new, and she never lets her writing fall down or stumble into the well-trodden clichés of the Sophie Kinsellas of the chick lit world.

Stephanie's husband of the last ten years, James, is leading a double life. He spends half his time in rural England tending to his veterinary practice -- and living with his mistress, Katie. He's got the best of both worlds: savvy, stylish Steph at home and comfy, cozy Katie while he's away. The trouble for James begins when Steph and Katie discover one another (and the fact that he's been lying to both of them) and they vow to get revenge. And let me just say: poor James. But also let me say that the book doesn't go or end up the way you'd think that it would. All of the characters grow and change and none in expected ways. Fallon's prose is light and frothy but she has such a knack for keeping the reader engaged. Also, her dialogue sparkles right off the page -- I know, it's a little cheesy, but it's true. Got You Back is a like a vacation -- warm, sunny, and always entertaining, and I'd highly recommend it for that one weekend you really wish you could just get away.

READING CHALLENGES: Fallon's British and the novel takes place in London and even though it's not the kind of book that I'd usually pick for Around the World in 52 Books, I'm counting it for now. Don't judge me.

#10 - Confession

Perhaps it's apt to start off reviewing Lee Gowan's latest novel, Confession, with two of my own: 1) I've taken more than one creative writing class with the author and therefore admire him greatly both as a writer and as a teacher; and 2) I enjoyed the last book of his that I read, The Last Cowboy, very much so when I saw that he had a new book, I was excited.

But now, almost a week after finishing the book, I still have some mixed feelings -- not about the quality of the prose (which is excellent) or the fact that I enjoyed the book (which I did, immensely) -- about how to write the review. How much do I reveal about the plot without spoiling it? How do I characterize the interesting way the author has created the story? What kind of comps would I suggest?

Confession's unreliable and slightly off-kilter narrator, Dwight Froese, has changed his name, found himself a new job, and desperately wants to stay close to his daughter. Trapped by both circumstance and landscape in a life that truly presents him with little options for happiness, Dwight tells and retells the story of how he ended up in Toronto. Raised in Broken Head, Saskatchewan by a young mother and a much older father (a very complex situation if my instincts [and reading ability] are correct), Dwight has always had a particular relationship with God. Whether it was his father seeing Him one day profess his death by the hand of his son, or simply just the comfort he finds in his spirituality, Dwight's morals are dictated by a higher power. And because he sits outside of conventional society, in a way, Dwight can see, understand and imagine a world that's not necessarily the norm.

The tragedy in his story comes from the fall, as one might imagine, not necessarily from grace but maybe from reality or, rather, the clash of his own perspective with that of the rest of society. The novel is heady and spends a lot of time exploring Dwight's thoughts, actions and relationships. As it's told from his point of view, the book remains intense from start to finish. The voice feels wholly original but also harkens back to familiar characters -- pop culture icons like Travis Bickle -- in the sense that he's an outsider. Overall, both the strength and success of the novel lies in the author's ability to create a character that's at once as unlikeable as he is compelling. It's a delicate balance, a difficult one, but one worth the investment by the time the end of the book rolls around.

If I had to think of comparative titles, I'd say there's a touch of the fierceness from Theft, a little bit of the structure found within The Double Bind, and a fair bit of 1970s-early 80s New York cinema, think Scorsese and Badlands. Keep in mind, the novel opens with a quote from Dostoevsky, and there are existential themes of crime and punishment within as well. But I sure would love to know what anyone else thinks...as you can probably tell, I'm still making up my mind about it all.

Bad Disease Day Blues

Yesterday might have been the worst "disease day" I've had in a few years. The full implication of the side effects from the prednisone came crashing down as I came face to face with the crazies. Suppressing my immune system means I keep catching all kinds of infections, which aren't worth noting except to say that combined it's all just a bit too much. Spent much of yesterday vacillating between bawling in my cubicle and wanting to drive myself head first out our 20th floor window. I know it's not rational. I know it's the prednisone. Having been through this all before, I can recognize that the medicine is turning my brain into a gloomy source of desperation and despair, but it still doesn't make it any easier to get through the day.

Sometimes, just sometimes, it's hard to stay positive when something so strong pulls you in the other direction. I fell down a little yesterday and just cried for a good long while. My RRHB was very kind by the time I got home and let me get it all out. Really, all I wanted was someone to tell me that it's all worth it, that it's a good thing to keep fighting the disease, that it's a good thing I'm not dead. I know none of this is rational. But there are moments when I can't pull myself up from under the weight of it all.

Today, though, is better.

#9 - Once

I think I tweeted last week about being so caught up in one of Rebecca Rosenblum's stories from Once that I completely missed the fact that our VP was standing right next to me on the subway. He laughed and said, "Good book?" when I finally realized he'd been there for almost my entire ride. And they are just that addictive, drawing you in from almost the first sentence, creating a world that sits slightly askew of the one you live in everyday, and then finishing completely.

I'm consistently amazed by the innovative ways young writers have when looking at the world. Rosenblum's characters -- people waiting for the bus heading to awful jobs, young immigrants, a family struggling to make sense of their situation -- are atypical. And yet, how often do you sit on the bus completely oblivious to the girl wearing three inch heels who carries on up Landsdowne after we all pile off and into the subway? But those people, sometimes lonely, sometimes burdened, always intriguing, make up the core of her characters. There's always something to explore in Rosenblum's world, and her keen writer's eye leaves little untold.

In the end, I suppose picking out one or two favourite stories might be the way to go, but it's hard when they're all so different and so, well, good. If I had to choose, I'd say my absolutely favourite would been "Linh Lai." A young immigrant girl who lives with her relatives tries to navigate her new world, holding tight to some very special talents, she gets a part-time job at a restaurant that is frequented by more than a few characters in the book. Charming, whimsical and full of great sneakers, the story stood out for me. But I honestly enjoyed every single story, their sad undertones, their slightly awkward protagonists, and the thorough ache of lives bursting with the kind of promise that never seems to quite bubble to the surface as it should.

READING CHALLENGES: Rebecca Rosenblum lives and writes in Toronto, so I'm counting Once as a part of this year's The Canadian Book Challenge. I'm way off in terms of books I picked at the outset but I don't think it matters as long as I'm still within my "for the ladies" theme.

WHAT'S UP NEXT: Blogging Lee Gowan's Confession, which I might leave until tomorrow so I can think about the book a little more... For now, I think I might start my Harlequin assignment for this week and then watch a movie. Foggy-cold-head makes for very poor book reviewing.

#8 - The Almost Archer Sisters

I've been felled like a giant dead tree these past two days by the same nasty virus that took a hold of my RRHB last week. I slept ALL day yesterday. Didn't move from the couch, ran a fever, and read when I could keep my eyes open for more than fifteen minutes. I did manage to crawl out from under the duvet, have a shower, and accompany my family to the Marlies game, which was piles of fun. After we got home, I crashed on the couch again and was in bed two second after Lost was finished (does anyone understand what's going on with that show?). So, on top of disease crap I've caught whatever bug is going around. It's winter, it's to be expected. But I'm telling you, the only thought that's been going through my head all week is quitting my job and living in California for the next three months to write. Annnywaay. Three books. Three reviews. Here's the first.

#8 - The Almost Archer Sisters

Way, way, way back in the day when I actually went to a book club (a terribly scarring experience, truly), Lisa Gabriele came to meet with us and talk about her book Tempting Faith DiNapoli. She was lovely and it was a really nice experience (I, of course, had not read the book, but I did go back and read it afterwards). Fast-forward many years and I have been thankfully freed from book club for some time now. But I did want to read The Almost Archer Sisters for a few reasons: 1. the fond memories of talking with her about her first book; 2. the great review the novel got in the Globe and Mail and 3. because of the lovely note my friend Randy had attached to the book when it showed up in my mailbox. He said, "it's just the ticket when these cold winter months are upon us."

Peachy has always lived in the shadow of her older sister Beth. Both scarred by the death of their mother from a young age, how they've grown up and around the gaping hole left behind by her non-presence rolls itself out predictably: Peachy clings to safe and stable things, she wants to be a social worker, she's got a solid marriage (even if she did get knocked up at 20), and two great kids (one of whom suffers from seizures). Beth rumbles around her life like a constantly breaking wave, causing trouble for all the swimmers in her wake, ruining lives and always hurting those who love her the most. All of this leads to the action (plot device?) that spurns the rest of the novel: Peachy stumbles downstairs late at night to find her husband and sister having sex. Peachy's husband, Beau Laliberte, was once Beth's boyfriend, and she left him behind all busted up and broken, too. Peachy decides then and there that Beth needs a dose of reality -- she leaves her sister behind with her family while she goes off to enjoy a weekend in New York alone.

The novel's premise, while terribly contrived, enables the author to explore the ins and outs of Peachy's life from an emotional standpoint that could only be accessed after the kind of shocking event that tends to force someone into change. Her insights are open, honest and heartbreaking at times. And there are parts of the novel where you couldn't find a better writer describing the inner workings of long-term relationships and motherhood. The novel remains cinematic from start to finish and even includes a 'big city shopping montage' that makes it impossible for me not to compare The Almost Archer Sisters to some of the better chicklit out there, think Gemma Townley and not Sophie Kinsella. I will, however, say that there's a part of the novel I liked so much that I read it through about six times before finally closing the book. Yes, you can imagine it's the end, so I'm not going to spoil it except to say that Gabriele's story was just what I needed this week.

READING CHALLENGES: Lucky for me that Gabriele is Canadian, which means I'm counting this novel towards my Canadian Book Challenge. That makes nine books (and I'm just about to write up #10 too!).

#7 - The Given Day

Since finishing The Given Day, I've written a number of opening sentences in my mind. "Dennis Lehane's epic novel is a true departure from his earlier work." "The Given Day marks the expansion of Lehane's already considerable talents." You all know that kind of sentence. We've all written them. They don't really do justice to the massive undertaking this novel must have been, regardless of whether or not it ultimately ends up being successful.

In short, The Given Day tells a story centered around the 1919 Boston police strike; its history told through the eyes of two main characters: Aiden ("Danny") Coughlin, a second-generation cop, second-generation Irish immigrant, and all around stand-up (albeit troubled) guy; and Luther, a black factory worker whose forced out of his life by two separate incidents (a "shotgun" wedding and a bad decision that leads to capital "b" big trouble). There are far too many secondary characters to list, crooked cops, Bolsheviks, union leaders, rabble-rousers, gangsters, thieves, cops, lovers, and baseball players (Babe Ruth, in particular). The novel creates a vast world that culminates in the violent events on September 9, 1919. Its story is mammoth and it can't help but sprawl. Even so, Lehane remains in control at every moment -- showing skills a lesser novelist who didn't come up writing hard plot-driving fiction couldn't maintain.

Lehane does two things exceptionally well: 1) he writes great dialogue and 2) he creates credible action. Because of these two things, it's easy for me to forgive both the cliches that pop up and the extensive (and sometimes clumsy) forced historical detail. Ultimately, once I started reading this novel, I simply couldn't put it down. Plus, the themes and issues Lehane explores are endlessly interesting -- the idea that socialism, even the mere hint of "red," pulled at the seams of American society in such a way as to cause massive riots and fear mongering is fascinating. That the essence of terrorism remains a rich theme to be mined, not just because it's ever-present in the ethos of our neighbours, but because it's obvious (at least to me, maybe I'm wrong) that Lehane belongs firmly in the camp of those who believe that without history we're doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over again.

It's a big book, and while it's not perfect, I'd say that The Given Day might just be the one before the really, really great one, which is impressive any way you look at it. I know I hate to use this word because it's just so industry, so back-cover-jacket, but The Given Day truly is unputdownable.

Sunday Sunday

We just finished watching The Big Chill. All the chores are done. I've got the last load of laundry in the wash so two more buckets to fold, not bad for 5 PM on a Sunday. Usually, I leave the laundry until the last possible moment and then it gets folded on Tuesday, maybe Wednesday. My head's so mixed up these days that everything's coming out all wrong and the more I keep busy, my fingers working, my shoulders hunched, the less time I can dedicate to wondering why, yet again, the disease is back. Wondering how come I have a huge list of all the things I want in my life and am not brave enough to get them all out in one place, to say them out loud. I know one thing for sure: perhaps I need to stop watching Intervention.

I'm halfway through The Given Day and Once (short stories are very good for the commute). I was reading one on Friday and was so engrossed that I didn't even notice my boss standing next to me on the subway. Whoops. The days are flying by and this week coming up proves to be just as busy. One freelance assignment, The Jersey Boys with my in-laws, my RRHB has a show on Friday night, and then we're seeing a hockey game with my dad (the Marlies, not the Leafs; we're not that connected) on Saturday night. I think I might have to call in sick on Monday because I'll be so tired.

Disease, what disease? That's what I'd love to say but I feel rotten this weekend. And that's hard to admit. Overall, I've been feeling so much better -- doing the GOOP detox and not eating sugar or dairy during the week, walking, restorative yoga earlier today -- but sometimes I just want to kick and scream and shout, "why f**&ing me." And enough is enough already. But it all just doesn't work out that way, does it? What I need is a top 10 list for dealing with super fancy diseases. Anyone got one of those?

#6 - The Picture Of Dorian Gray

Like so many of the classics on the 1001 Books list, it's easy to know the premise and/or general story of the books, but be utterly ignorant of the details. I've never read an Oscar Wilde play, but seen quite a few, enjoyed the films (both Wilde and The Importance of Being Earnest), and had only heard of Dorian Gray because my RRHB dragged me to the truly horrible The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. What a surprise it was to read The Picture of Dorian Gray. It's different from what I expected, full of Wilde's infamous wit even if the writing is a little melodramatic, but it's also wonderfully spooky and even a little surprising in places.

A young, beautiful man becomes the subject of a painter, Basil Hallward. The blush and brilliance of his youth inspires the artist as nothing ever has before and the resulting piece contains a bit of magic he'll never achieve again. Dorian Gray, the subject, learns of his own beauty, through the painting and makes a vain wish to never suffer the indignities of losing his youth. The painting, once it hangs in Dorian's own house, starts to degrade each time he acts wickedly. It shoulders the burden of age. It withers, wrinkles and bleeds. Buoyed on by the psychology and philosophy of his best friend, Lord Henry Wotten, Dorian leads a life of purely hedonistic endeavors. He ruins women. He collects icons without any thought to their religious values. Society adores him, but he has enemies, women swoon, and men wish they were him. Sound familiar? Yet throughout it all, the painting haunts him, and makes it impossible for Dorian to completely forget his actions. The lives he ruined haunt Gray and by the end of the novel he questioning whether or not redemption is even possible.

The novel has gothic overtones, which I enjoyed immensely, as well as a character who's driven to act in ways he may not have had he not been celebrated for his external qualities. In a way, the novel reminded me of Woody Allen's film Match Point. There were so many quotable pages that I wished I had a physical copy of the book (instead of an ebook) so that I could earmark all the pages. And I was intensely curious about Wilde's decision to imbue the book with luscious and sometimes over the top descriptions of the natural world in which they live. Flowers, the smell of winter, the pine trees, lovely blossoms, everything compliments the glorious state of utter hedonism throughout. The malcontent Dorian feels towards the picture gets locked up in a dusty old schoolroom, closed off from his everyday life. The violence in the novel is contained and away from good society, as Lord Henry says, crime is beneath them. The moral of the story utterly apparent by the time the novel ends and, in a world where Hollywood images of ageless people rule the magazine stands, I'm surprised more references aren't made to the book in pop culture. A whole generation of Dorian Grays inhabit our modern world, raised up by millions wishing they too were young, beautiful and apparently indestructible.

READING CHALLENGES: The Picture of Dorian Gray is on the 1001 Books list, and is one of the 66 titles that I've highlighted for the year. Really I'm just trying to clean some space off my Sony Reader so that I can put some more classics on it. Truly, it's the best gadget I've ever owned. It's replaced my blackberry forever in my heart.

OSCAR WILDE SIGHTINGS: Left some lipstick behind and visited the statue in Dublin with Tina. Now I don't feel so much like a tourist.

TRH Updates - The Sickness

It's been a hard week, I'm not going to lie. In a way I had worked myself up for it, knew that by taking the prednisone for a month this past December, and by how I was feeling that the disease was flaring. Finding myself again at the crossroads: my body working against me and me working hard to change my life only results in more disease activity. Sometimes, it just gets you down. There's a lot of protein in my urine and my creatinine is sneaking up again -- key markers in terms of the Wegener's being active in my body. It's nothing dramatic, it's just me being back on medicine.

At least this time the Super-Fancy disease doctor asked me what treatment I would prefer. I rallied hard against the methotrexate. I really don't like giving myself and injection once a week. But maybe that's just because my RRHB and I have been watching way too much Intervention (holy crap is that show addictive; how ironic). Plus, I can't gain back all the weight I'm trying so hard to lose. I managed a month on prednisone with really no change and I can't go back to marshmallow ragdoll on methotrexate. Kindly, SFDD agreed to let me go back on imuran. Baring any dramatic episodes like the last time, let's hope my body responds well and my bloodwork starts coming back with some improvements.

I have to say, though, that after months of feeling awful, of catching everything that wandered by, of battling just to get out of bed in the morning, that I've starting fresh in the New Year with better eating habits (no sugar [we'll see how long that lasts] this week; no dairy next week) and walking both ways to the subway in the morning. You know, I'm actually feeling better. I had energy all week and only one bad day (due to mucho stress at work) where I crashed the moment I got home. Overall, I've been reading more, sleeping fine (yes, chemically induced but without it the prednisone crazies will come up and bite me on the ass), and getting a lot of stuff done on a day to day basis. My horoscope is on my side, that's got to mean something, right?

Now the goal becomes squeezing in some writing.

#5 - Little Brother

Sometimes, even before I begin, I've got to digress. We've been watching The Wire, and after I finished reading and blogging on Tuesday I had no idea what to read. Pulled down a few books from the shelf, looked at them, and was not inspired. I gave up, put a novel beside my bed, and then started to watch "Dead Soldiers." The teleplay was written by Dennis Lehane. The literary lightbulb went off and, when we paused for a moment, I grabbed The Given Day down and read before bed.

The next morning was snowy, cold, miserable and full of bad news. I read the book waiting (an hour plus, weather delays and general mayhem) for the Super-Fancy Disease Doctor, and then went in to hear my fate. When he was asking me about the dose of one of my meds, I had to pull the book out of my bag. He picked it up, started going on about how a "buddy" had been raving about it, and that it's the best book he'd read in a long time. I said, "You can have that copy."

SFDD said, "Really?"

I said, "I have another one in my office, it's our book, we publish him."

He looked a little shocked for a moment, thanked me, laughed, said that he never takes gifts from patients and winked, "But I will take this though." Heh.

So, there goes my copy of The Given Day. On the way into the office via the TTC, I started reading The Picture of Dorian Gray on my Sony Reader until I got into the office. I had to run into a meeting the moment I got into work; afterwards, Liza (the key person for kids books in sales) pulled me into a little meeting and said, "You have to read this book." She handed me a copy of Cory Doctorow's Little Brother. So suddenly, in the span of 12 hours, I've been through three different books and not finished a single one.

And I loved it, Little Brother. In some ways it reminded me a little of War Games, but for this century. Marcus and his friends are out and about in San Francisco, bunking off school to play in a large-scale game organized online and played in the real world. And then a giant bomb goes off in San Francisco -- a terrorist attack upon the city. Marcus and his friends, Darryl, Van and Jolu, are scooped up and taken to a form of Guantanamo Bay. Eventually they let Marcus go, but after five days inside, the entire world has changed and DHS (Homeland Security) has taken over everything, tracking people by their public transit cards, their internet access and all kinds of other complex and unseemly stuff. While three of his friends get out, Darryl's left behind, and this spurns Marcus on to buck the system. To force his freedom as far out as humanly possible to make the point that living in a police state means the terrorist win.

There's a lot of complex material in the book, loads of interesting tidbits of information, and Doctorow dispels them in ways that pull you further into the story without making you feel like a dolt because you've never heard of arphids or Kerouac. There's a sweet love story, a kid with a great relationship with his parents, and a brain big enough to have DHS running around in circles until it all comes crashing to a head. Writing intelligent, engaging fiction for young adults isn't easy, the tone has to be just right, the subject matter can't alienate the audience, and if it has cross-over appeal to the adult market, all the better. Little Brother hits all of these points and then some. But mainly, I had fun reading it, completely unexpected, totally giddy fun.

And because Kerouac's one of my favourites too, I couldn't help but mark this lovely passage:

There was a rhythm to the words, it was luscious, I could hear it being read aloud in my head. It made me want to lie down in the bed of a pickup truck and wake up in a dusty little town somewhere in the central valley on the way to LA, one of those places with a gas station and a diner, and just walk out into the fields and meet people and see stuff and do stuff.

Me too.

READING CHALLENGES: Doesn't count toward a single one. In fact, knocked me off course completely in terms of my reading but when someone at work says, "you've got to read this," really, you don't have a choice.

WHAT'S UP NEXT: Finishing The Picture of Dorian Gray and The Given Day.

The Pros and Cons of New Year's Revolutions

I know. I'm only two days in and I'm already fed up with my New Year's Revolutions. Yet, I'm only two days in and feel the need to write a little so here's another list:

1. Bringing your lunch means less garbage for the environment (pro) but it also means doing dishes at work (con) with the gross-ass, nasty jclothes they've got piled up in the sink where rude-ass people leave their dirties for the cleaning lady to pick up. (con)

2. I have been walking up to Landsdowne in the mornings to get in an extra walk. Now, um, I've been trying to use natural deodorant. Let's just say that I caught myself today and went, "WHAT I HAVE B.O.?" (con)

3. Watching less TV means more time thinking (pro) and reading (pro) and writing of to do lists. Currently, I'm 1/3 of the way through the one for this week (Jan 5th). (con; only because I'm tired, really, really tired, stupid prednisone)

4. "I will be zen at work. I will be zen at work. I will be zen at work." (pro/con).

5. Bringing your lunch means not seeing your friends. I like my friends. I miss them. I am giving myself one day a week for an "out" lunch. This week it's Friday with Munro. (pro)

6. I see the Super-Fancy Disease Doctor tomorrow for a check up. No fear. (pro)

7. Post-holiday gift baskets piled high with chocolate and other yummies remain untouchable to me. (con)

8. Detoxing and not eating sugar makes me one crabby person. (con)

9. Music is good. And I've been listening to tonnes of it lately as I'm writing as I'm cleaning as I'm working. (pro)

10. Next week as I add in the no dairy clause to the cleanse, I am sure I will be a nightmare to deal with. (con)

How you all doing with your resolutions?

#4.5 - "The Fall of the House of Usher"

Oh Sony Reader, I do love you. Before the holidays, I dumped a bunch of ebooks onto my reader, classics from 1001 Books that I could always have on hand in transit. Stuff that I could read when I finished whatever novel I was carting around at the time. One of the stories I put on was "The Fall of the House of Usher," and I'm not going to tell a fib, primarily because it was short and I'm all about the numbers these days.

I love how 1001 Books states, "It seems to be stretching the definition of the word to its very limits to describe The Fall of the House of Usher as a "novel." Note they use italics and I am sticking to quotes because you can't tell me this isn't a short story. I'm not complaining, I'm just clarifying for my own edification.

Annnywaay, this story scared the living crap of out me. It's creepy, chilling and totally gothic in that yummy way that only Edgar Allen Poe can accomplish. A young man returns to the house of Usher where the only two remaining family members, Roderick and his sister, Madeline, live in a decrepit and decaying house. They're both sick, Madeline from an illness that confounds the doctors, and Roderick from something that reads a whole lot like depression to my modern eye. The narrative creeps up to the last fateful night, and what Poe achieves in 61 electronic pages is really astounding. Stories within stories, pages devoted to mad poetry (as in its being written by a madman, not "mad" in the means "awesome" way), and a narrator who spends more time describing in intricate detail the abysmal surroundings than he does talking to his childhood friend.

One line in particular that I bookmarked: "Hitherto she had steadily borne up against the pressure of her malady..." Maybe I need to make that into a t-shirt it's so fitting to my life. Now, one question: why is it that in ghost stories, things always happen in threes? It was the same in A Christmas Carol. And why does it take someone three utterly terrifying occurrences before they wake up and, um, get the fark out? I read a lot of Poe in grad school, but because my mind is terrible with titles, and well, let's face it, entire plots, I haven't counted off any of the stories in 1001 Books. I am going to go back to Project Gutenberg, though, and download some more. They're just perfect for a stormy night barreling through the city in the red rocket.

READING CHALLENGES: 1001 Books, natch.

#4 - Babylon Rolling

Shall I be honest? I mean utterly, unflinchingly honest? I almost put this book down after the first page after the prologue. Amanda Boyden's second novel, Babylon Rolling starts off with a love letter of sorts to New Orleans, beleaguered already prior to Katrina and devastated afterwards, and it's touching if a bit affected, the use of the pronoun "we" and all that, and then the book itself carries on like a thunderclap before a storm. She's a powerful writer -- there's no denying it. When I finished the novel on the way home, there were tears in my eyes.

Now I'm going to digress. I know I'm sick of how much I've been talking about The Wire lately so I can only imagine how sick the rest of the world must be (listen me, the world, pshaw). For someone who doesn't live in the middle of a raging gang war or a city almost overrun by crime, I always feel there's an authenticity to The Wire that could be horribly misplaced. It's an ivory tower appreciation for something I have never experienced; the "realness" of it makes me feel like I'm involved in some way in the defeat of human society, if we're being honest. 'It's not a war,' The Wire keeps reminding us, 'because no one wins.' And this theme, the decay of civilization, in a way, pervades much of Babylon Rolling: people cheat on their spouses, horrible and traumatic accidents happen, dope slingers and their gangster counterparts reign in some corners, and tragedy seems to define a place that hasn't even seen the worst of it, the hurricane hasn't even hit yet.

But I felt like Fearius, the self-given nickname of a young boy christened Daniel, whose voice is written much like the dialogue in The Wire, wasn't as authentic as I would have imagined he could and/or should have been. So I found him and his bad grammar and his lack of punctuation and his misapprehension of vocabulary a little off-putting in ways that I would have never criticized had I watched him in the television show. Yet, the other characters, some mentally challenged, others simply lost, were so completely whole that it kind of made up for Fearius's terribly annoying everythingness.

I loved Cerise, a 70-year-old grandmother who loves her husband so fiercely she endangers her own life to save him, and her voice broke my heart all over the place. The simplicity and wisdom from which she lives her life is inspiring. The troubled marriage of Ed and Ariel reminded me a little of Tom Perrotta, and their actions not only underscored the main themes of the book, but they heightened the whole sense of troubled America in microcosm. But like Fearius, I felt Philomenia was a little over the top at times. The idea that all of these people live on the same street and that so much happens to them felt contrived, a little too Crash for me. But I can't say I didn't get caught up in the story and I can't deny that there's a powerful strength of voice to the book. I'm glad, too, that I didn't put the book down after the first few pages. It certainly showed me, didn't it?

READING CHALLENGES: Babylon Rolling is one of my Cleaning Out the Closet challenge books. That's one down and 19 more to go, and since Boyden was born in Minnesota, I'm counting this book as the United States for Around the World in 52 Books too. I'm sure as sh*t not going to get stuck reading so few countries this year. It's not exactly cheating to knock off all the easy ones first, is it?

WHAT'S UP NEXT: Blogging "The Fall of the House of Usher" for 1001 Books, I finished it too this evening. And reading? Who knows. I'll wait until something calls for me.

Sunday Evening Ramblings

It's back to work tomorrow. After over a week off, and a good time to decompress, I'm still not sure if I'm 100% in the mind set. Most of today was spent fiddling about with my to do list -- remincient of the last time I spent an extended period of time at home -- and trying to finish as many as humanly possible before starting to make dinner. Some things:

1. I tend to write the same item in different ways forgetting that I've listed it already, hence three or four entries relating to budget, charity payments and/or swapping out our new chequing account information.

2. Can you learn French simply by listening to Edith Piaf?

3. For two of my items I will need to pull out a needle and thread. Um, yeah, like that's going to happen...

4. Is it pathetic to have "read the paper" on your to do list so you don't forget and leave it sitting for two weeks before cutting out the crossword and then tossing the whole thing in the recycling bin?

5. I have grown quite attached to GOOP. Huh. It's actually full of good recipes, solid lifestyle-type content and the newsletter's really easy to read. The name, however, still sucks.

6. My RRHB is now completely and totally obsessed with Gordon Ramsay.

7. I managed to put off ANY work whatsoever until this afternoon. The break was brilliant. But it just made me think of how much I could get accomplished if I stayed at home all the time.

8. Procrastination is also a wonderful tool. I didn't write a single word for my own work but my house sure is clean. No more excuses.

9. The Wire is still the best show television has ever produced.

10. In the end I had 102 items on my to do list and managed to cross off 61 -- that's not so bad. Now I need to rewrite it for tomorrow! Whee!

#3 - In a Free State

The last thing I expected this morning was to get caught up in V.S. Naipaul's truly excellent In a Free State. I woke up early, as I usually do, crawled out of bed, grabbed my book and cuddled up under the duvet on the couch. My RRHB slept. I read. He slept. I read more. He woke up. I crawled back into bed, fell asleep for a bit, and then finished the book. What a perfect lazy day before the craziness of real life picks up again the moment the alarm goes off tomorrow morning.

The last Naipaul book I read was A House for Mr. Biswas way back in second year university. I was captivated but that never brought be back to Naipaul. My post-colonial reading in later years turned back to Canadian, I left university, did my M.A., and never picked up another of his books. Another of the surprises that I found on my shelf, I must have ordered this book back when 1001 Books came out. In a Free State was first published in 1971 and it won the Booker that year. Bookended by two diary-like travel journals, the collection contains two short stories and a novella, from which it takes its title.

The first story, "One Out of Many," follows a servant brought to Washington from Bombay. One day he steps away from his employer, leaves everything behind in the cupboard where he was sleeping, and becomes an illegal immigrant with an under the table job at a local restaurant owned by a fellow countryman. The story explores themes of alienation as Santosh makes his way in the United States, and slowly he discovers that he'll need to leave almost 100% of his old life behind to survive.

This idea, of the cost of freedom and the impact of the realities of immigration, is carried forth into the second story, "Tell Me Who to Kill." Leaving everything he knows behind, the narrator picks up and heads to London with the intention of giving his brother a better life, a life of studies, so he too can become "something." He works hard, saves his money, and then as so many stories go, makes a bad decision that ruins everything. Told through flashbacks as he takes the journey to his brother's wedding, the story becomes alive through his rich dialect, the obvious affection he feels for his brother, regardless of how he disappoints him, and the necessity of change when faced with adversity. It's a crushing and heartbreaking story.

"In a Free State" inverts the situation. Here a white, homosexual man has come to Africa to serve the government,under ideals of serving for the greater good. Away from the safe collective where he lives, Bobby attends a seminar and then must make his way back during a time of political upheaval. His passenger, the wife of a British journalist named Linda, makes pleasant enough conversation to begin with, but it soon becomes obvious she isn't happy either on the journey or in Africa. As their trip becomes even more arduous (they miss their curfew and are forced to stay at a ramshackle colonial resort), the polite nature of their relationship disintegrates. Armed with a sense of misapprehended colonial idealism, Bobby soon finds himself in all different kinds of trouble, some of his own making and much as a result of the political situations, and it's damning. Like in the first two stories, Naipaul explores themes of alienation and separation, of family and work, of place and displacement.

I couldn't put this book down. It's a book I'd love to study. A book that reminds you how words can sever a problem from its root, pull it apart and set it down in a way that makes you see things more clearly, even if in the end, for all three protagonists, little changes despite how hard the world presses up against them to force their currents in a new direction.

READING CHALLENGES: In a Free State is on the 1001 Books list, and so I'll cross it off there. But Naipaul was born in Trinidad, so I'll count this book on my Around the World in 52 Books list as well. It's actually a perfect book for that challenge. The landscapes, from the unknown African country that's the setting for the novella to Egypt, from London and Washington as seen through the eyes of those who settle and are not born there, there's an interesting sense of place that grounds the entire collection.

COMPS AND OBSERVATIONS: I couldn't help but think of Blood Diamond when I was reading "In a Free State," not because the stories are at all similar (it's a terribly mediocre film in the end), but because when Bobby speaks to an African man in the book, he uses that patois that Leo uses at the beginning of the film: "Who your boss-man? Who?" As Naipaul describes the country as it slips from colonial to post-colonial rule, I kept hearing, "T.I.A. This is Africa, right?" from that scene at the bar. In terms of comps, for much of the story, I kept thinking of Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants," despite the fact that it's obvious that Bobby and Linda are not at all lovers, their conversations have that same read-between-the-lines feel to them and the dialogue is excellent.

WHAT'S UP NEXT: I picked up Amanda Boyden's Babylon Rolling while my RRHB was using the computer. Fingers crossed I'll finish it tonight, which means I'll have managed to finish 7 books while I've been off for vacation. Not bad indeed!