travel = audiobook time

Look Again by Lisa Scottoline ... it was like a grown-up version of The Face on the Milk Carton by Caroline B. Cooney. :-) I really liked it!

Ellen has an adopted son, three-year-old Will. Then one day she sees his face on a missing child flyer. What would you do?

Favorite quote from TFOTMC: "The kiss was long. And serious. Serious like my hair, thought Janie."

Hahahaha!

I also read Here on Earth by Alice Hoffman, selected for Oprah's Book Club. It started off like a modern Wuthering Heights ... soap-opera-ish passion. Then it dissolved into straight-up adultery. And it wasn't even awesome writing. Waste of my time, Oprah. Thanks.

writing hiatus

Sometimes I don't write because I have writer's block. Sometimes I don't write because things just need to sit and stew a while.

That's how I feel right now. I'm reading a ton, and I can feel the words brewing inside of me, gaining strength. One of these days I am going to sit down on the computer, and the words are going to fly out of me like sweet sparrows.

In the words of Zusak, "Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like rain."

an Enger day

Today I finished reading So Brave, Young, and Handsome by Leif Enger for the first time. I also finished Peace like a River by Leif Enger for the millionth time.

My take: So Brave just can't compare to Peace. It really can't.

Some highlights from Peace: "He was like a small, hot, talkative planet."

"Fog inquires first at wrists and ankles."

From So Brave: "In the meantime Siringo was a living hero, rising from the smoke like a leathery old god out of Homer."

It wasn't as bad as reading I am the Messenger by Markus Zusak after reading The Book Thief. That was an all-out let-down, a complete disappointment.

I am not even condemning So Brave, Young, and Handsome. It's just ... those who have read Peace like a River know what Enger is capable of, an envy-inducing piece of literature, glorious imagery, and hilarious characters. While I read So Brave, I missed Swede. :-)

confidence-booster

Yesterday afternoon I started and today I finished
The Summer I Turned Pretty by Jenny Han.

The best thing about this book is that it reminded me that I am a decent writer. :-)

I am also re-reading Peace like a River by Leif Enger, which is masterful and gorgeous. If you read between its lines, it says, "You will never write something as good as me."

But thankfully I read Summer I Turned Pretty, which shouted, "But you can certainly do better than this!"

I do have to confess though that I am a fan of brooding, moody boys like Conrad in this story. What is wrong with me?

in the works ...

Right now I am listening to Peace like a River by Leif Enger at night before I fall asleep and in the mornings while I get ready for work. I am also listening to So Brave, Young, and Handsome, also by Enger, in my car. It's interesting to switch between two books by the same author. As you know, I adore Peace. It's my first time reading So Brave, though, and I'm not sold yet, but I'll let you know how it goes.

I'm also reading How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely, who was a writer for David Letterman, so I expect it will be funny.

Just letting you know what pots are on the stove!

how to describe it??

Have you ever seen the Northern Lights? I caught the phenomenon one evening as I drove back to the Twin Cities from Rochester. I was with Whitney, and Laura was sleeping in the backseat, and all of the sudden, BAM! Right in front of our eyes there is this crazy green light in the sky.

I'll be honest. My first reaction? I thought the world was ending. Or that aliens were real after all.

I'm trying to write a scene about the Northern Lights. Note: trying. How would you describe this? Help me out! I'm looking for a clever description.

Here are my first-draft attempts at describing my main character Neely's and her friend Gabe's experience:
I stared up into the night sky that was streaked with glowing green light. It was as if the sky was raining green radiance or as if plumes of green gas had issued from forty crashing planes. It was as if God had broken open a glo-stick and begun to fingerpaint the sky. Green wisps like smoke from a burning countryside.
I lay back on the blanket and stared into the sky. Gabe, sitting up beside me, looked at me for awhile, then lay back on the blanket next to me, our heads together. We didn’t say anything, just stared up into that hazy green streaked on top of the black. It was almost neon. You could see our breath in the cold night air.
“What are you thinking?” Gabe asked, then lightly kicked my foot with his own when I didn’t answer.
“I don’t know,” I said, still overwhelmed. “I’m not sure. I can’t even tell if I’m thinking of a lot of things or nothing because nothing’s really forming in my head. It’s really so bizarre, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he said.
Silence again. “Say something,” he commanded.
“I really don’t know what to say, Gabe. It’s absolutely incredible.” Beside me, he leaned on his side and propped himself up on one elbow and looked at me again. I kept my eyes on the green glow. It was like when the sun is bursting through the holes of a cloud with such power that you can actually see rays of light, beams of sun reaching long arms through the clouds and to the earth. Only tonight the beams were green, and there were no clouds for the beams to kick through. The background was inky black, a little dirty looking, with stars as spackling caught in it. It was a little like watching a forest fire through a haze, only the softened blaze was green instead of orange. Or like when you’re driving at night in thick fog, and as you approach an oncoming car, the headlights’ beams are like long, tall towers of light, swirling in the smoke. And green! Everywhere, green.
“I feel like this is the time when you should say something really clever and wise,” he said.
I laughed a little. “Me? Why?” I laughed again.
“Because you’re tight with God, and you’re looking at this.” He flicked his head back to indicate the green wonder that was happening right over his shoulder.
“You’re getting philosophical on me, Reed,” I said, and he laughed. “You want me to talk about God. Admit it.”
“Kay, fine,” he said. “I kinda like it when you talk about God.”
“Gabe,” I said, “look with me.” He lay back down, face near mine so that I could feel his hot breath on my neck. “Look,” I encouraged him, and he turned and looked up at the heavens with me. “God is talking for Himself.”

weekend reading

This weekend I read

ZEN in the Art of Writing by Ray Bradbury

Bradbury, as you may recall, is the author of Fahrenheit 451, which is an excellent read. This book ZAW was a collection of Bradbury's essays on writing.

It was a quick and delightful little read. 174 pages long. The best thing about this book is the very obvious joy that Bradbury takes in writing ... it fired me up!!

The book was a great reminder to me of why I love this craft ... and also an encouragement that in order to write the lovely things, you might have to write a whole load of crap first. So just keep writing.

Okay, I will. :-)

writer's block

When I take time off from writing—and sometimes for no apparent reason—I get into a strange funk where I can’t write anything decent, and I begin to suspect that I’m really a complete fraud, that I have no business calling myself a writer, and that nothing beautiful will ever come from me. I used to get really nervous during these times, all out of sorts, and feel sorry for myself and for all the time I have wasted scribbling mediocre words onto the page.

But more and more, I am learning how to push through those funks and to keep writing. To not be so hard on myself and to know that eventually I will write something worthwhile again.

I know it is a wonderful thing to surround oneself with beautiful writing, but some writers are just so good that they make you feel like absolute crap about yourself. The current glorious thorn in my side is Leif Enger, author of Peace Like a River, which I have read countless times. It still completely bowls me over when I spend time with the book. Enger’s fiction is like poetry, do you know what I mean by that? His novel reads like song lyrics; his words lope with grace.

My words fumble in the dark. They bump into one another. They sit in awkward silence, then open their mouths for mundane commentary.

At times like this, I have to trust the creative process—that I will write something decent again, probably within the next two weeks, that I will fill a page then wring it out to excise the fat, that I will freewrite and stumble into something relatively brilliant and ready for me to own, that I will tie together bits and pieces of imagery to make a word necklace, and that my writing group will not allow me to settle with mediocrity. It is good for a writer to have critical friends.

So, I continue to write, to push through the fog, knowing that the garbage I record is just priming the pump for later excellence. One day, maybe a week from now, my fingers will fly, inspired, over the keyboard, and I will think of how I felt tonight and realize that it was really so silly. And besides—what else would I do?

I can’t not write.

Summer reading, had me a bla-ast ...

What I read this summer ...

Beatrice and Virgil by Yann Martel

Having loved Life of Pi and The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios, I was thrilled to hear that Yann Martel had put out a new book. Reviews were mixed on this one though.

What is it about?

Oh, a writer. And a taxidermist ... writing a play ... about a stuffed donkey and a howler monkey ... in the Holocaust.

Beg your pardon?

Yeah, I know, right? Martel studied philosophy in college. It's a very different sort of book. But I give it my thumbs up.

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

FAVORITED! Oh my goodness, I read this for the first time in the summer of 2009, and in the last year, I think I must have read it something like 8-10 times. It is really THAT good. One of my top ten favorite books.

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess

I was interested to hear that the American version of this book (and Stanley Kubrick's film) only had or used 20 of the 21 chapters that Burgess wrote. I read the full 21 chapters.

Very jarring book about a 15-year-old criminal. It was shocking, as I said, but totally worth the read. Burgess uses a lot of slang, so that you almost have to learn a new lingo, but I was surprised to see how--as I was nearing the end
of the book--I was actually thinking in these terms! I was going to viddy the veck's malenky litso in the car next to mine, ya know? :-)

Brainwashing plays a role in this book, and it's neat how the reader is--in a sense--brainwashed into learning this new Nadsat-speak.

The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle

Beagle is brilliant. This is one of my top ten favorite books, and I don't care if that makes me a total geek. It is really just so, so lovely. If you are a sucker for beautiful imagery, READ IT NOW.

"Wonder and love and great sorrow shook Schmendrick the Magician then, and came together inside him and filled him, filled him until he felt himself brimming and flowing with something that was none of these. He did not believe it, but it came to him anyway, as it had touched him twice before and left him more barren than he had been. This time, there was too much of it for him to hold; it spilled through his fingers and toes, welled up equally in his eyes and his hair and the hollows of his shoulders. There was too much to hold — too much ever to use; and still he found himself weeping with the pain of his impossible greed. He thought, or said, or sang, I did not know that I was so empty, to be so full."

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis

Another one of my very favorites. I read through the Chronicles of Narnia the way you swallow your prescription drugs ... routinely. I listen to LWW, then back to Magician's Nephew, then Horse and His Boy, and on. The Last Battle is my favorite.

This is for sure my favorite series. If you haven't read them yet, what is wrong with you?

The Harry Potter Series by J.K. Rowling

Reading these through for the second time was so interesting because I caught a lot of stuff that I hadn't before. Rowling is brilliant.

Why can I not be brilliant?

And British?












Devil in the Details by Jennifer Traig

This was a hilarious book about obsessive-compulsive disorder, which is, of course, what my own novel is about. It was interesting to compare Traig's scrupulosity to my own and to my main character Neely's.

A very funny book. You know, one of those that makes you jealous that you can't write such funny things. Then you have to convince yourself that you don't actually want to write such funny things--it's just not your angle. Then you can finally feel better about your loathsome, boring, unfunny self because you know how to write poignant things. Which is way better ... right? Bueller?

Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli

This is another book that I read on repeat. It's delightful.

Stargirl is the book I recommended to Nicole from my small group, who does not like to read.

Did she like it?

Of course she did.

You people need to learn to trust me.

The Problem of Pain by C.S. Lewis

Brilliant, brilliant. Lewis chews on the old "problem of evil." If God is good and all-powerful, then why do bad things happen? Is God not powerful enough to stop them? Or is He powerful enough to stop them but not good enough to do so?

This question used to trip me up in the past. But the way that Lewis just calmly peels back the layers of the onion is incredible. I love this man.

Identical by Ellen Hopkins

Not as quality as many of the other books I read this summer, but it was interesting, nevertheless. A young adult book dealing with incest and sexual abuse. I listened to it on the 4.5 hour drive to a wedding and the 4.5 hour drive back, so it was really just unloaded on me. Very disturbing.

The Road by Cormac McCarthy

My co-worker Kyle read this book then began to read it again. Repeat. Four times. I'm not even joking. He read it four times in a row.

Now, if you haven't noticed yet, I am a repeat offender myself. I read through Narnia and The Book Thief as if I got amnesia every six weeks, but I don't usually read straight through a book and then re-read it immediately.

So I knew something was up with this book.

It was incredible writing. And terribly sad. And chilling.

You should read it.

What I could not stomach this summer ...

The Shack by William P. Young

I tried. I really did. I endured the absolutely terrible writing quality for 5 whole chapters, but at the end of 5 chapters, I really threw in the towel. I'd be interested to hear what people liked so well about it.

A little Billy, for a start

Currently reading ...

Questions about Angels by Billy Collins

People who do not like poetry like poetry written by Billy Collins. The man is a genius. And hilarious. And coming to Minneapolis in three weeks and two days.

You'd better believe that yours truly has shelled out $75 to hear him speak. I don't even feel bad about it. At all.


Here. Tell me what you think about the title poem. It's one of my favorites.

Questions about Angels
Of all the questions you might want to ask
about angels, the only one you ever hear
is how many can dance on the head of a pin.

No curiosity about how they pass the eternal time
besides circling the Throne chanting in Latin
or delivering a crust of bread to a hermit on earth
or guiding a boy and girl across a rickety wooden bridge.

Do they fly through God's body and come out singing?
Do they swing like children from the hinges
of the spirit world saying their names backwards and forwards?
Do they sit alone in little gardens changing colors?

What about their sleeping habits, the fabric of their robes,
their diet of unfiltered divine light?
What goes on inside their luminous heads? Is there a wall
these tall presences can look over and see hell?

If an angel fell off a cloud, would he leave a hole
in a river and would the hole float along endlessly
filled with the silent letters of every angelic word?

If an angel delivered the mail, would he arrive
in a blinding rush of wings or would he just assume
the appearance of the regular mailman and
whistle up the driveway reading the postcards?

No, the medieval theologians control the court.
The only question you ever hear is about
the little dance floor on the head of a pin
where halos are meant to converge and drift invisibly.

It is designed to make us think in millions,
billions, to make us run out of numbers and collapse
into infinity, but perhaps the answer is simply one:
one female angel dancing alone in her stocking feet,
a small jazz combo working in the background.

She sways like a branch in the wind, her beautiful
eyes closed, and the tall thin bassist leans over
to glance at his watch because she has been dancing
forever, and now it is very late, even for musicians.



Beautiful, right? Told you so. This blog will touch on a lot of Collins' work since I'm such a huge fan. To be honest, Billy Collins is such an incredible writer that being a fan is a little like being a fan of the Beatles. I mean, really, who isn't? But there's no denying it.


Currently writing ...
a scene introducing Ellen

Ellen Conner is one of the characters in my novel, which you'll learn a little about through my blog. The main character is Neely Richter, but I'll talk about her more later. For now, I am working on Ellen.

Ellen is a fictional sophomore in high school, obsessed with fantasy literature and jazz music. She's inspired by my friend Lauren, who is brilliant and artistic and hilarious, but Ellen is not Lauren. Ellen is actually a very blunt, no-nonsense, boys-are-yucky tenth grader who knows the history of pixies and a thing or two about unicorns.

It's interesting working on Ellen's character because she is being grafted into my book much like a Gentile. The entire story has been written with no Ellen character, and then--bam!--I realize that my book is missing a teenaged influence. Enter Ellen.

Hallows not Horcruxes plus KISSING

Currently reading ...

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

You can make fun of me all you want, I have Potter mania. MANIA. I have now read Deathly Hallows about six and a half times.

And a half, you ask? Yes. My co-worker Josh is reading the series for the first time, so naturally, I peed my pants and started to re-read them with him. I tried to read at Josh's achingly slow pace, but after I cruised through Half-Blood Prince, I had generated such speed I couldn't stop. So now, a million years later, Josh got about halfway into Hallows, I started on the same chapter he was on and read from there. To the end.

Josh is only one chapter past where I re-re-started. Josh is the worst.

Currently writing ...

a kissing scene between Neely and a particular boy

I told my friend Kristin that I was going to write a kissing scene to stand in for my sorry singleness. Because two made-up characters kissing on paper is just as good as the real thing.

Right.

At least I get to make the guy amazing. On my online dating site, the only men interested in me are 55 and divorced with elephantiasis.

Welcome!

It's fitting that I begin this blog as autumn army-crawls into Minnesota, a stealthy chill! It was only about a week ago that the heat was stifling me in my office, and now, just days later, I am sleeping in sweatpants under a thick comforter. Gotta love Minnesota.

Why a new blog?

Ashley Thorman wrote to me on Facebook: I would love if your [book] list was updated. Along with if you blogged about what you were reading?? I would like to hear your thoughts while going through it.

My thoughts: how about if I blogged about both what I'm reading and writing?

Words are the building blocks of my life.

Very quickly:
1) The Word. Jesus Christ. My foundation.
2) The Word. Scripture. My guidance.
3) My novel. My project.
4) Literature. My inspiration.
5) Spoken words. My relationships.

I hope you will enjoy this! I'd love to hear your thoughts, so please comment often!

In Christ Jesus,
Jackie