Family members have been giving me notebooks–and fancy pens–as gifts since I got out of college. It’s a nice sentiment, really, it is, but all of my writing really happens in my laptop (it has the smudge marks from repeated use to prove it). I like the pens but I’m always afraid of losing them, and some of the notebooks are really precious but I don’t want to “ruin” them by marking in them and then forgetting about them.
But a friend gave me an editing-themed mug and I have used the heck out of that. (I particularly like it when I’m editing, duh). So more of that, please!
I read most of Robin Hobb’s Liveship Traders/Rain Wilds series (and was eager to finish it, but it wasn’t completely written at that point!) years ago, and when I was leaving on a trip I thought I’d pick up another series of hers and take a little “fantasy vacation,” too.
I’m glad I was reading this one on a plane; otherwise, I might not have finished it.
In fact, I am not sure if I’ve read this one before or not, which maybe isn’t the best sign.
It’s not a bad story at all; it’s full of court intrigue and a light dusting of magic. Characters are relatable, I enjoy the castle keep setting, and I was pulled along to reach the end.
However, compared to the Liveship Traders series, (or at least my memories of it) this book was pretty dull.
I kept having the thought that, in the hands of another writer, this same story would have been more enlivened. As it was, it was like the narrator couldn’t decide if he was being unreliable or not. At first this is forgivable: it starts with our hero–a bastard son of the king without a formal name (awkward!)–as a young child. He has a child’s perspective and it makes sense that he wouldn’t necessarily recall some things.
But as the kid grows up and becomes the titular assassin’s apprentice, I just kept finding myself wanting more. More details about training to be an assassin, about how to kill, about his childhood training and his relationship with the others at the keep. Instead, things are mentioned frequently in passing, and more time is devoted toward side stories that frankly I never got particularly invested in. The end result is that I liked the book but feel like there was a lot of dithering and wasted time. It felt more like a book I was reading just because I was trapped on a plane than something I was really drawn to keep going with. The moments that seemed like potential for incredible action descriptions I found myself daydreaming about–how would I have written that? What could have happened on that misadventure? What greater depth could that scene show?
I read this on an ereader, so I don’t know page numbers, but I do know that the really exciting and interesting stuff–I’ll have to leave it out in case you decide to read it anyway–didn’t show up until I was 90% through with the book.
Then the action was over before I could blind and it turned out the last 5% of the book was filler, so that wasn’t a lot of room for a denouement, either.
Part of me is still curious about the rest of the trilogy, and though I mostly had figured out the twists in this one before they happened, it was still an interesting courtly intrigue type plot, so I’m curious as to what might happen next. But I wouldn’t rank it as engaging fantasy and I don’t feel pressed to immediately pick up the next book. Maybe it can wait until I need to wait in an airport again.
Well this is just charming. Apparently Kurt Vonnegut, brilliant writer and social commentator extraordinaire, had a theory that all stories could be graphed on a basic happy/sad scale, and that the shapes these stories created said something about our culture.
That’s the very pleasant chart version, with more info at this link.
(And do watch the video. Vonnegut seems like a very lovable professor, maybe a bit dusty, but the audience is having a ball and is just eating it all up. It almost sounds like someone had a heavy hand on a laugh track.)
Someone with a deeper knowledge of Vonnegut than me should really go chart Vonnegut’s stories in this way and see what “shape” they make. I feel like “Slaughterhouse-5” may have some twists and turns to it, though “Breakfast of Champions” might be kinda flat.
What do you think? Does this “graphic” interpretation make sense?
Maybe this will sound stupid, but I’ve been thinking a lot lately about why we eat. I mean, we have to, on some level of course, to live. But I started a diet (yay New Years’ resolutions!) and it is affecting a lot more than just the numbers on a scale.
In diet world, you only eat because you have to. (Some crazy people will claim that this isn’t necessary–those people are liars.) You eat at regularly scheduled times, in quiet, with only you and the food you must eat. You eat therefore to provide building materials for muscles and bones, to keep your brain singing (unless you’re on a “cleanse,” then you’re breaking your brain long-term), to keep basic processes basically processing. If food tastes good, it is either evil and trying to destroy you or it is merely incidental to your need to eat it.
This, of course, it’s completely wrong.
As real people, we know that, but diet world is sometimes overwhelming, a palpable intensity that you MUST, MUST lose weight, no matter what, no matter how weird it is.
Incidentally, that’s why a lot of diets fail.
Because eating also provides an excellent excuse for socializing. My church has a joke that our symbol should be a covered dish, we have so many potlucks. And you know in college you can’t host an important meeting without buying pizza. It gives you something to do with your hands while you chat; it allows other engagements to last longer, because you’ve got built-in pitstops to refuel. It’s a way to build friendships, as you learn what you like about each other and maybe share a dish.
It also helps us express our feelings. Sure, sometimes we can go overboard with a pint of Bluebell when we’ve had a bad day, but making a cake for someone’s birthday gives me great joy, and it feels like I’m actually transporting that joy to the eater in the process. And we all know that the thing to do for funerals or prolonged illness is make a home-cooked meal, something hearty. These foods sate the body while providing a vehicle for our sadness, which we as a culture are so terrible at expressing. Making a special meal for my fiance wouldn’t be as significant if the act of feeding him didn’t also say something about our relationship, how I want to nourish this thing we have together, make it grow up big and strong.
Cooking is a skill, and it’s a hobby that you are always going to need to spend more time learning: there is always something more. It not only feeds the body, therefore, but it feeds the spirit and the mind (and in my kitchen, the arms. Kneading dough is tough!)
Food also carries its own significance. Sometimes this is a religious significance, such as the sourdough my church has used lately in communion. There is wine at weddings, and Sprite makes me feel a little woozy because it is my I-don’t-feel-good drink of choice.
Food has meaning. Much more meaning than we commonly allow it.
You could (and should, probably) work significant or at least meaningful foods into your work (lembas bread, anyone?), but also take a moment to appreciate the many things your meal is giving you in your daily life.
(Okay, actually, not all of them. America has a surprisingly low literacy rate for a developed nation, and it’s absolutely tragic how people in an industrialized country like ours could have been deprived of this vital skill, which basically dooms them to minimum wage jobs. NPR had a brilliant report on it. I tried to volunteer for an adult-reading program, but apparently this kind of work wasn’t compatible with my 9-5 job.Those people? I do not judge those people. I am sorry we failed them as a community.)
If you are a competent, reasonably educated person–as most folks in America are–then I 100% judge you and think you are less competent if you aren’t opening a book, turning on a Kindle, or otherwise taking time to read something other than your work emails.
The Atlantic article shows that the 23% non-book-reading rate has actually held from the last time the poll was completed, so in 2012 AND in 2014, about a quarter of the population hadn’t read a single book in a year.
The reddit conversation about this report raised good questions: What counts as a book? Are we just talking adult fiction? Would the training manual for work qualify? How about “Hop on Pop” that I read to my kid?
I don’t know the answers to that, but my answers would be: maybe yes, if you actually read it and didn’t skim; and probably no, but chapter books should totally count.
Another set of comments suggested that it didn’t matter because people were reading more than ever, just not books–reading news online, reading personal correspondence, reading magazines. They contend that therefore, it doesn’t matter that people aren’t reading books. I disagree. We’ll get to that in a minute.
The study also reports that only a quarter of people said they had read more than 11 books in a year–not a high sum, and that means that most people (about 50%) have read between 1 and 10 books in a year, far less than one a month.
Last year, I used Goodreads to track my reading, and surprised myself to find that I read more than 30 books last year. I didn’t even find it to be that hard; after all, I’m a fairly busy person. I guess the only thing I do differently from others is that I don’t watch TV…but even then, I watch a show or movie on Netflix several times a week, so I still have an affinity for the boob tube.
(The Atlantic story dug in a little deeper to suggest that because more people are graduating college, more people will likely be readers later on. Maybe. I certainly hope so.)
But–all those non-readers: I’m judging you. I am judging you for your shallow appreciation for fine literature, for an experience that literally takes you out of yourself and teaches you to empathize for others; to allow you to be anyone you could imagine (or can’t imagine!); to teach you new words and concepts that are beyond your ken. Reading unlocks worlds, both within you and outside of you, and I think you are a pathetic person if you can’t be bothered to even read ONE BOOK in a year.
I don’t even care what it is–Young Adult books have seen a surge recently, and it ain’t just kids reading those. Some YA books are my favorites! It’s a great way to escape adult pressures.
Why don’t magazines and online reading count? Basically, they are too short and don’t provide that escapism or empathy portion that you get from complex storylines in a novel or nonfiction work. There isn’t sufficient complexity. I mean, the average newspaper (and magazine) is written at the 8th grade level. That’s not a very high bar. You can do better! Stretch your mind! It will make you more interesting. I am full of random tidbits and knowledge picked up in a book somewhere along the lines!
And the time thing isn’t really an excuse; you’re just not trying. I read before bed. I also bring a book to lunch with me, in case my coworkers are busy. Reading while eating is far better than just eating alone because you got ditched for a meeting!
One of my favorite college professors recently declared on Facebook that she read 177 books a in the last year! That’s incredible! I mean, I felt accomplished with 30! I told her that Stephen King claims to read 70 books a year, so clearly she needs to start writing.
Reading is good for the soul and the mind. Go pick up a book, you lazy louts.
Robin Hobb, fantasy (and science fiction) writer extraordinaire, did an AMA on Reddit recently. This was one gem from the conversation:
Question: from user Livin_Right
How much time to you spend daydreaming about your stories before you put pen to paper? Do you have most plot ideas worked out in your head first, or do you start writing and let it take you where it may?
Daydreaming? That’s almost my full time occupation! But from the time I get an idea to the time when there is enough of it to say, “This will be a book and it’s time to start writing” is usually at least a year, and often much longer. Many times I’ll get a tiny gem of an idea, and I love it, but it’s not really enough to be a whole short story, let alone a book. So I set it aside and wait. And other bits of it come to me, dialogue or names or settings, and I add that to it. And Wait. And what usually happens is that I’ll be perusing the story seeds, and I’ll suddenly see that two or even three or four are all parts of the same story. When you put them together, they start striking sparks off each other, and growing. It’s wonderful. Then it’s time to write the book.
I love this comment so much. It’s just so perfect. With my first book, I had the idea a good three years before it formed itself into a nice book-sized concept, and it took 6 months to complete (even with the 50,000 words clocked during NaNoWriMo!). Just so fantastic!
Question: from user -August-
Hello and welcome back. I’ve read you will write a story without trying to form it along a certain path and just let if flow, if you will. While I enjoy this idea when reading it, seeing the characters go through good and hard times, I’m sure it could have its ups and downs on the writing side. Do you ever regret writing like this? Is there anything you would change?
I think of Story as this big river. If I can get out into the main current and then hang on for dear life, it will sweep me along and I just follow the story wherever it goes. It works wondrously well for me. Except when it doesn’t. And when that happens, when I suddenly find myself stranded in the muddy shallows with the story going nowhere, then I have to ‘lighten the raft’ so to speak, usually by discarding the last 50 or 100 pages that I’ve typed. So. Yes, there are definite hazards to trusting your Muse, but my experience has been that the rewards are greater than the risks.
This is fantastic, too. I’ve never cut out 50-100 pages of a story before (and OUCH does that sound painful!) but Robin Hobb is an excellent fantasy writer and I’m completely with her comment regarding trusting the muse. I could not have told you how my book would have ended when I began. I had a feeling, but not a certainty. It took working with the characters and the environment to formulate it into a cohesive whole.
I’m glad I discovered this AMA; it’s excited me as a writer and as a reader. I read a crush of Hobb’s Rain Wild series in middle school, but lost track of the series. I think I know what I need to pick up as my next book!
This book is proof that personal taste will vary–dramatically. I have not labored so long on a book I so utterly disliked in years. I have to be missing something, though, because it won a Pulitzer Prize and it’s one of my fiance’s favorites (the latter is the only reason I kept reading at all).
But I just don’t get it.
First, the book offended my editor’s sensibilities. Proulx clearly is well-versed in how to write, and yet she insists on crafting whole paragraphs of sentences without subjects, for example. Were I her editor, I would have thrown my hands up in frustration (as her reader, I still did!) Sentences could not be read on their own but had to be read as part of the whole. It took me several chapters to realize the sentences were more about rhythm than paragraphs–the sentences flow like waves. In. Out. In. Out. Constant little swells to remind you this is a story tied to the ocean. Then at least I understood, even if I didn’t like it.
While reading, it also struck me that, by all the standards agents claimed were essential, The Shipping News should never have been published. The story starts with the very beginning of the character’s life, completely without offering any enticing action, without even a likeable character. The story is vague at best and it’s hard to see the point. There is plenty of symbolism for your 9th grade English teacher to dissect though, so it’s got that, I guess?
And yet it was, so let that be hope to all you aspiring authors out there–you may not only prove them wrong, you may win a Pulitzer for it!
Like I said, I just did not get this book. It is the story of Quoyle, a guy who is a newspaperman because he’s terrible at all other jobs and is mediocre at this one. He is enormously fat and basically just a giant sad and possibly retarded sack. He has two kids who are ill-tempered and is married to Petal, the first woman who would look at him. Petal is a horrible person in every way and openly cheats on Quoyle. She even tries to sell off the kids as sex slaves! The first several chapters make sure you are fully aware of how pathetic a person Quoyle is in every way.
The inciting incident is the completely deus ex machina death of Petal, death of Quoyle’s parents, and firing from his job. Completely untethered, he and his overbearing closeted lesbian uptight aunt take the kids to their ancestral home in Newfoundland.
The biography for Ms. Proulx says she lives at least some of the time in Newfoundland. With that information, you’d think perhaps she likes it there. That’s impossible to tell from this book, which has both made me think about Newfoundland for the first time ever and then promptly made me think I never ever ever want to go there.
According to The Shipping News, Newfoundland:
-is bitterly cold -is overrun with sexual deviants and child molesters -is completely boring and devoid of anything to do -offerings nothing but disgusting-sounding "cuisine" -is dirt-poor -is going to find a way to drown you -hates the rest of British Columbia -has absolutely nothing to offer
Sounds like a nice place, amiright?
Anyway, so Quoyle moves there, and the rest of the book is him very slowly discovering that the rest of his ancestors are horrible people, falling in love with another sad sack, and gaining some kind of professional capability not because he has a talent for it but because he is another warm body.
I never could answer the “Why should the reader care?” question that is supposed to be so significant in a successful book, so I don’t know why you should read this. Maybe to figure out what the heck I was missing that was supposed to make it enjoyable or at least worth contemplating? The message, as far as I can tell, is that sometimes you are dealt a raw hand and with time and a good bit of magical plot devices, you can work your way all the way to a moderately decent but actually not all that wonderful life. So just settle for the lives you’ve got, you sorry excuses for human beings.
Not my cup of tea, like I said. Can’t account for taste, I guess.
Fun little test here to see how quickly you read (and there’s a vital comprehension part to ensure you aren’t skimming and cheating).
Mine was pretty quick, in the 575 words per minute range, which was faster than I’d expected! Supposedly at that rate I could read all of War & Peace in just over 17 hours–hard to believe, really. (But could I read Harry Potterand the Sorcerer’s Stone in two and a half? Bet your bottom dollar. In fact, I might’ve…)
Plus it tells you how many books you could read on an ereader without recharging. Clever.
I’m a little late to this story, but it’s so precious I feel like I have to share it. One of Neil Gaiman’s books–a rare signed hardback ARC of Stardust–is worth a whole lot more than its cover price.
Author Patrick Rothfuss has been coordinating a charity fundraiser for Heifer International (aside: This is one of my favorite charities, too, making me love this story that much more. I mean, you already knew I love Neil Gaiman). Other authors jumped on board this great cause, including Gaiman, who donated an ARC of Stardust.
The book was put up for auction via random drawing: anyone who donated through Rothfuss’ fundraiser had a chance to win it. And so someone won it.
And then gave the book back, with the stipulation that it be re-donated to the auction.
So it was up again. And then the NEXT guy who won it (for a cool $2500!) ALSO donated it back, same as the person before.
And it happened again the NEXT year.
Then it gets trippy. The year after that, the person who won the last time won AGAIN–so they mailed it to her, feeling like this was destiny.
She took a picture with it, admired it… and sent it back again!
(Man, Gaiman must be a bit hurt that no one wants to keep his book!)
In other words, this one (admittedly awesome) sweet little book has raised thousands of dollars (donated oodles of goats!) for a good cause.
I don’t know if I would have the strength to give it back like all those other nice folks did, but it sure does make for a great and wonderful story.
Yet again, people are in an uproar. Yet again, much to the disappointment of many, it’s for a ridiculous reason. This time, it’s because a multinational company dared to produce an extremely patriotic advertisement with ample not-so-subtle product recognition, but included people who weren’t white and didn’t all sing a song in the same language. (Dios mio, am I right?)
Here’s the ad, in case you’ve missed it:
Cue gnashing of teeth and rending of clothing.
First, my opinion: It’s a commercial. Moreover, it’s a commercial with zero offensive imagery and ample lovely landscape images and happy people. If that is the kind of thing you choose to get upset about, I feel sorry for you. And I hope you have health insurance, because you’re gonna need to stock up on blood pressure medicine.
But it stirred up a lot of discussion. I’m sure you can find some, if you haven’t already. Some of this discussion happened among friends on my fiance’s Facebook page.
One person who chose to be offended in turn said some pretty thoughtless, stupid, and frankly horrible things. Among them, he said, basically, America has a culture. And it’s English-only. If you want to “celebrate your culture,” go ahead open a restaurant, I’m sure your food tastes great.
And another friend saw it.
This friend–we’ll call her A, for Exhibit A, is half-Chinese half-Indian culturally. I believe she was born in the United States, but either way she’s a citizen. She is studying for her PhD, in something involving linguistics–so yes, she speaks perfect English, and can teach others how to do it, too. She intimidates the heck out of me because she owns (and dominated) every Zelda game. She even got a Zelda wedding ring.
I had the privilege of attending her wedding, which was a Hindu ceremony (vivaah sanskar) conducted mostly in sanskrit, and had Chinese elements. Her groom, who is white, wore a kilt. She wore, in turn, a white wedding gown, a red Qipao, and a red sari. I’ve heard the couple was disappointed they couldn’t include more subtle Beauty & The Beast references in the reception, but still, it was the most beautiful wedding ceremony I’ve ever witnessed.
Anyway, A saw this conversation, and later she wrote this (copied with her permission):
So out of all the commentary I’ve seen on this whole “Coca-Cola” ad thing, there’s really only one thing that I would like to say:
My culture is not my food.
It can be found in the food that I eat. It’s in the lunches I took to school as a kid and the dinners I cook for my husband. But the actual dishes served at meal time are only a small part of what makes up my culture.
My culture is not just the food that I choose to eat, it is the way that I choose to eat it. Whether I use my hand instead of my fork or hold my soup bowl to my lips. My culture is the way we don’t eat meat when my grandfather visits, and the way we had barbecue every 4th of July and moon cake every September. It is in the way that my grandmother chastised me for putting my chopsticks into my rice or the way that my family shares meals at the dinner table, instead of serving individual plates of food, THAT is my culture.
My culture is the way we celebrate. From New Year to New Year to New Year, it is the way we dance and sing and drink and eat and wish good fortune on friends and family. It is my grandparents living with their grown children and my cousins who are as close to me as siblings. It is the plays I performed in, the movies I watched, and the songs I listened to. It is the respect I show when praying at the temple or in church. It is the guilt I feel when I have to choose between making my parents happy and being a grown woman with values far different from the ones they grew up with. It is community, and giving, and welcoming, and sometimes ignorant or snobbish and it is wonderful.
My culture is diverse, both in its peoples and in what it can bring to the country in which I was born and raised.
So yes, my culture can be found in my food, but it is NOT my food.
My friend A represents the ultimate of our hopes for America. She’s amazing. And for someone to have made her feel less than because of a stupid 30-second commercial during a sporting event? That’s not the America I support.
M.E. Kinkade 