“Bring Up The Bodies” – A Review

This is the text of my review of Bring Up The Bodies by Hilary Mantel, posted today on Goodreads.

 

With this book, Mantel has added new colors to her brilliant portrait of Thomas Cromwell, Henry VIII’s mastermind counsellor. More narrow in scope than its predecessor, Wolf Hall, Bring Up The Bodies focuses on the downfall of Anne Boleyn and her supporters and offers a possible explanation for Cromwell’s active role — perhaps one might call it zeal — in the process. It is an explanation that is certainly plausible and consistent with the character of the man we have come to know through Mantel’s gifted narration; a man who will serve his king above all else, but is not averse to making things come out as he sees fit at the same time. Cromwell’s awareness of his own danger in Henry’s court is both prescient (because we, from our perspective in history, know what is going to happen to him) and realistic (because he knows what is likely to happen to men like him), and the tension between these two emotional realities is part of the joy of experiencing these novels.

The only criticism I have of this book is that it reads a little more like “This is what he did” as opposed to Wolf Hall which was more “This is who he is” and as a result, I did not ever find myself moved to tears as I was with Wolf Hall. However, this is a tiny quibble. I still devoured it with relish and loved every minute spent in the company of this clever, wise, worldly man. And Mantel suggests something at the very end that, as with Wolf Hall, makes me hope with every fiber of my being that she will continue to explore his life with a third novel in this series.

What A Difference A Year (Doesn’t) Make

It’s been a long time since I wrote anything on this blog. Not that I haven’t been writing. In fact, I’ve been working just about every day. I’m revising a novel that I hadn’t looked at in years because an agent expressed interest in it. Which I guess proves that you should never give up on anything you write.

But in the time that I’ve been so busy, I did miss something. An event that the typical blogger would have celebrated with a countdown, give-aways, guest bloggers, party hats and confetti (virtual, of course).  My blog-iversary.

That’s right. At the end of March, I passed my one year anniversary with this blog.

I didn’t even notice. I am such a bad blogger.

Looking back, I had certain expectations for this blog.

I was going to post regularly. If you look at any list of rules for success at writing a blog, they all say make and keep to a schedule. My plan was to post weekly on Thursdays. I did that sometimes. The Thursday thing, I mean.

I was going to write about writing. But as I bounced around the blogosphere, I found that there are so many – SO many — blogs about writing, and I just didn’t feel like I had much to add. Does the internet really need yet another blog post on the use of the comma or eradicating the passive voice? I don’t think so. Instead, I have written about movies and TV and music; I have written about what I read and see and experience in the hope that it will connect with others out there on a more personal level.

Which leads me to what I did accomplish:  connecting with other writers. Through blogging, I have built virtual relationships with people whose opinions I respect and whose advice I value as strongly and as deeply as if they were members of a writing group I might meet up with at the local coffee shop. This is the true power of the internet; this is its gift to writers.

So as I move into my second year of blogging, my vision of what I am doing has changed. Overall, I am happy with what I’ve done so far. I’m tickled that the most hits I’ve gotten so far came via the search term ”slutty dress.” I’m proud that a ninth-grade reader shared “Teen Girls and Tight Corsets” on her Facebook page. And most of all, I’m delighted with the people I’ve met out here.

Here, have some confetti. Yippee!

Health

Reblogged from EMU's Debuts:

I didn’t write a word for almost three years.

It happened as a direct result of the single hardest job I’ve ever had in my thirtymumble years on this rock: personal attendant to a small screaming person who required round-the-clock attention and supervision, who cared less than nothing about my mental health or physical well-being.

Three years I walked the floor while the crying seeped into every corner. 

Read more… 320 more words

I just had to share this heartfelt piece by brilliant debut author J. Anderson Coats, whose already well-reviewed "The Wicked and the Just" will hit bookstores very soon. She speaks from the heart, straight to my heart. Thanks, J!

Save My Place, Will You?

I almost never use a bookmark.

This is due in part to my nearly perfect memory for the written word, so that when I pick the book up again, I can turn to my page based on the muscle memory of how the book felt the last time I held it (how many pages in each hand, how its weight was distributed) plus the memory of what the page I was reading looked like — lots of words or a few, where the paragraph breaks were, how much dialogue, beginning of a chapter, right- or left-hand side…

Yeah, it’s kind of freaky.

The other reason is that, even though I have an assortment of very lovely bookmarks, I never have them handy when I need one. So I grab whatever is close by: an old shopping list, a coupon, a business-reply envelope, those annoying post-card inserts that fall out of magazines…  Frequently, I get my books from the public library and if they have been placed on reserve for me, they come with a little slip of paper inside with my initials and the date of the reservation. Instant bookmark!

I think my favorite substitute bookmark is the thank you note. These little cards are a perfect size, even for paperbacks, and their bright colors make me smile every time I open the book, even before I start reading. Instead of receiving the note, reading it and tossing it — into the recycling, or into a pile of papers never to be looked at again — I tuck it into my latest book, and for the next few weeks or months, I get to think of my friend every time I read. And I read all the time.

What do you use for bookmarks? And please don’t say you turn the book over and crack the spine. I just can’t be your friend if you do that.

As I Lay… Writing

There’s nothing like William Faulkner to make you feel like an abject failure as a writer.

My book club is reading “As I Lay Dying” this month and I’m going to lead the discussion. In typical fashion, I have gone a little overboard. Highlighted text. Color-coded sticky-tabs. A page of notes for each viewpoint character. A book of scholarly criticism, also sticky-tabbed. Pages and pages of possible questions for discussion.

For Pete’s sake, I made a chart.

But not only is Faulkner worth it, he deserves it.

There are writers that make you feel great about yourself. You know the ones. You put the book down and you feel incredibly inspired; you can’t wait to start writing again because you KNOW you can do it too; you’re energized and excited.

That’s not Faulkner.

Faulkner is one of those authors whose work makes you shudder, makes you moan with a sense of your own inadequacy. His skill with a pen makes you feel like a kindergartener with an oversized crayon. And then you find out that he did it in about six weeks with very little editing or revision. He said that when he began writing the novel, “[before I] set down the first word, I knew what the last word would be.” 

It pretty much sprang from his head fully formed, like Athena from the head of Zeus.

Yes, he’s a freaking Olympian god.

But you know what?  I’m never going to be William Faulkner, and that’s really okay.

I’m privileged to live in a world where William Faulkner existed and I get to read his work. And scribble in the margins and stick my little tabs on the pages and struggle to articulate to a group of my friends the beauty, the majesty, the power of this man’s command of words.

Because as long as I keep reading, keep striving, keep struggling, there is a chance that I will catch it:  some tiny glimmer of his gift, that will lift me closer to Olympus.

Stones In The Stream

I love to sit beside running water:  a river, a stream, a creek. The rushing tumble of sound is somehow thrilling and soothing at the same time. The power of water to shape rock and land is there before your eyes. A river is ever-changing and yet ever the same. Such places are full of peace and inspiration for me.

Here’s me in one of my happy places: 

Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado

The other thing I love to do with running water is to rearrange it.

There is inevitably a pool of still water somewhere near the banks, or a place where a branch has fetched up against some rocks. Nature put them there, and I love to add my hands and my mind — as small and human as they are — to her forces.  Move the branch, redirect the path of the water so it flows through the pool again.

You never know what might happen downstream.

What does this have to do with writing?

I’ve been revising two novels at once. You would think that would be a recipe for disaster. I sure did when I began. By all rights, I should have put one of them aside and worked on the other. More specifically, I should have worked exclusively on the one that the agent was interested in.

The word “should” is a powerful motivator for me. In the other direction.

Oh, sure, I was waiting for critiques from my buddy in Connecticut. And yes, I was waiting for my subconscious to work on it. I had not looked at or thought about this story in years until the agent asked about it so I needed some time to get back into it. I had to mull it over.

It wasn’t fear AT ALL.

While I was gingerly picking up stones over here, helping the water flow into this still and quiet pool, the funniest thing happened.

Downstream, the water started to move in ways I had not anticipated.

Things that had been murky and obstructed with the other novel — branches across the stream — suddenly opened up. Where I had lacked ideas, scenes that made perfect sense emerged. They were obvious, in fact. They were revealed. Uncovered.

So I hopped across the metaphorical rocks and started working over there. Tossing stones into the water, making it flow in another direction. Listening to the crystalline splash made by fist-sized rocks, and the hollow crack-BOOM when a big stone skips off a boulder and hits a deep pool.  Teetering on slick, half-submerged stones and wiping my wet, silty hands on my old beige shorts.

And, you guessed it, the still pool back on the other side began to flow.

I have been incredibly busy, these past two months. Having fun, working hard, heaving stones around in the stream.

 

Teen Girls And Tight Corsets

I’ve been mulling over this post for a while. I have wanted to talk about teenage girls and romance and all the hoopla about vampires and werewolves and what trends in books can tell us about what teens are experiencing. Not that I’m an expert, but I think I have a feel.

Then I read this recent article in the Denver Post which gave me more to think about.  It bothered me, because as with so much in journalism these days, it highlights only one aspect of an issue.

The article is about princesses and little girls.  Essentially, it presents the corporatization of the princess concept and the marketing of that idea to ever-younger children.  It postulates that this idea — that external beauty is what matters, that pampering is a birth-right, and that they will be saved by a prince — is creating warped expectations of adulthood and relationships.

This is such an over-simplification of something incredibly complex, it really borders on irresponsible. As happens so often in journalism, the (intended?) result is to distress the reader without doing more than hinting at the other side of the issue which is that there is a psychological and developmental purpose to role play and fairy tales in a child’s life.  The article drops a hint at the very end but does nothing more with it; I talked about some of it here.

When my daughter was a baby, about nine months of age, we went to Toys R Us to buy something.  I remember very clearly the moment she spotted the “girls” section on the other side of the store — all pinks and purples and sparkles — and practically lunged out of the cart, desperate to GET THERE NOW!  You can’t tell me that there’s not something hardwired into little girls to love this stuff.  I don’t know why, but there it is.

So is it culture or environment, nature or nurture? Like everything in life, it’s a bit of both.

So how do we get from pink-and-purple dress-up to vampires?

I have some thoughts about that.

The appeal of fantasy is obvious: magic and ballgowns. Dress-up and being unique. It’s not hard to understand why a girl would want to imagine herself a princess in a world like that. It’s girl power with a fabulous dress.

But why paranormal?  Who wants to date a guy who DRINKS BLOOD?  Seriously!

I think I know what it is.  It’s the rules.

In fantasy and paranormal, there are lots of rules.  In that fantasy world, there are stratified social classes and lots of rules about courtship.  With paranormals, there are rules about who can do what:  vampires can’t go out in the day; werewolves need to avoid full moons; zombies eat brains. 

Rules are comforting.(1)

If I am a princess and you are only a commoner, you can’t court me.  You can’t even speak to me.  More to the point for a modern girl, you cannot come up behind me at a dance and start grinding against my body without permission.  I could so go “OFF WITH HIS HEAD!” on you.  That is incredibly reassuring to a girl who, in her real life, feels powerless to stop it when it happens.

On the other hand, if I like you, I can change the rules.  I am a princess, after all.  But until I do, you have to keep your distance.

In the paranormal realm, if you are a vampire or werewolf or other creature of darkness, my very existence is a temptation to you.  I am your prey as well as your love interest.  Therefore, we must keep at arm’s length, being very careful of how we touch and when and how much.  Sex could lead to death for me, and I’m really not interested in going there.  So we’ll just hold hands and look at each other with longing, at least for the first two books. 

Now, this is all very over-simplified if you really think about it.  But this isn’t happening at a conscious level.  And you can understand why all this would feel comforting for young women.  Things used to be straightforward:  you waited until you were married (or at least you pretended to).  Then the 60s came, and the sexual revolution and feminism, and women thought it was all going to be about freedom and independence.  However, what I’ve seen as my friends’ daughters grow into young womanhood is that they are just as pressured to please young men as their counterparts in the 50s but society as a whole no longer stands behind them and says, “It’s ok to say no.”  On the contrary, society says that sex is the be-all-and-end-all and must be done as soon, and as often, as possible. If you don’t, you’re a prude, you’re a bitch, you’re a tease – you’re anything but a strong, independent woman making a choice.(2)  Is this the social progress that feminists dreamed of?

In a society where there are so few rules to protect and guide young women, is it surprising that they want to read about their counterparts who have it both ways:  romance with clear boundaries, love within limits?

Is it any wonder that girls want to be princesses?(3)

_____________________________________________________________

(1) As an interesting counterpoint, according to this article, it seems that there are men who like the idea of some traditional rules as well – not where sex is concerned, but regarding work - judging by their response to Downton Abbey.

(2) Consider this:  just when they could have their “princess” moment – homecoming or prom - instead, girls are buying skin tight dresses cut low in the bust and so high in the hemline that they have to wear shorts underneath (or at least we hope they are wearing shorts underneath). Motivated by fear, they buy the “slutty dress” so the boy will like them and so their peers will approve.   

(3) Only a former attorney would do a blog post that’s nearly 1,000 words and contains footnotes.  I’m really, really sorry.

Short and Sweet

My son is in a situation right now where he doesn’t really mesh with the teaching style of one of his teachers, and consequently, his grades in that class are not what they should be.   This is one of those “life lessons” moments you really hate as a parent, because you can say whatever you want about having to do your best work in difficult circumstances in life but your kid isn’t going to think:  ”Wow, my mom is so much more mature and experienced than I am, and I should totally listen to what she says.”  Your kid thinks, “I don’t like this class, and I’m not going to do the work.  So there.”

But there are lessons to be learned from even the worst teacher-student relationships, as I’m sure many of you can attest. 

Here’s an example.  My ninth grade English teacher, who was harsh and unlikeable, gave us a simple assignment:  a book report in which we had to answer her questions on one side of a page.  Piece of cake, right?

I chose my favorite book at the time, “Watership Down,” a tome of just over 400 pages that I knew like the back of my hand.  The only problem was, it was really hard to compress 400 pages into those three tiny lines she gave us to answer questions like “Describe the main action of the plot” or “What is the turning point of the story?”  So I squeeeeeeezed extra words into the margins and in between the lines and even onto the back.  Because I HAD TO. 

She gave me a 77.

The fact that I remember this will tell you what my grades usually were.

I was appalled.  How dare she?  I had written a great book report about a great book.  I did more than the stupid assignment called for. 

I crept up to her desk — remember, she was a dragon-lady and I was a meek, make-no-waves kid – to ask about the grade.

As I remember it, she roared and snapped and breathed fire, dragon-lady that she was, but this was the gist of what she said:  I get that you know the book really well, but you didn’t follow the instructions, and following the instructions was part of the assignment too. 

My irritation lingered, but deep down, I understood.

I’m not saying that I never made that mistake again.  It’s not like a wisdom lightbulb went off over my head and I’ve been perfect ever since.  You don’t learn something all at once and for all time.  That’s a big lie perpetrated by feel-good Hollywood movies and “message” YA fiction. 

But I heard her loud and clear, and as much as I disliked her, the lesson stuck, and it got stickier with time.

It comes back to me frequently when I have to write a query according to an agent’s guidelines.  Or a three-page synopsis.  Or a two-sentence pitch.

Keep it short.  Keep it within the lines.  Play by the rules, or you don’t get to play. 

I’m hoping that there’s a lesson in this situation for my son.  Besides the fact that his mother is right.

Augustana in Denver

Wednesday night I went with my family to the Bluebird Theatre in Denver to see Augustana.

I’ve written about them before.  They’re my favorite band that (almost) no one has ever heard of.

When I last saw them, it was June and I was there for my birthday.  Since then, the band broke up.  I was devastated by the news — no more music from these talented guys?  But the scanty information available was reassuring:  lead singer Daniel Layus was going to try to keep it going and the band, in some form, was going to fulfill its contractual obligations to play gigs.  Including January 25, 2012, in Denver.

Tickets purchased!

It is clear, after last night, that Dan was and is the heart and soul of Augustana.  It is his personality that propels the performance, giving it honesty, passion, and intimacy.  I was thrilled that the set included new songs which sounded like vintage Augustana.  Dan promised that somehow, in some form, this music will get out into the world, hopefully in a CD.  I can only hope that he will be able to fulfill that promise.  One song in particular, “Sunshine,” is still in my blood even though I can only remember snippets of the lyrics and the melody is entirely gone.  Something like “shade in the moonlight,” and “right at the wrong time:” playing with opposition the way Augustana — OK, Dan — does so well.  

And you have got to love a man who is so devoted to his family.  How many rock stars get up on stage and talk about spending time at home changing diapers, or change the lyrics of a song to reflect how much he misses his wife when he’s on the road?  At the last concert we were at, he bragged about how beautifully his teenage daughter is growing up before launching into a song he wrote for her.  Maybe that’s not going to score him big points with some audiences, but it definitely makes me feel good about him. 

I also want to mention the opening act, Graffiti 6.  I had never heard them before (my kids had) although I had heard of them, and I absolutely fell in love.  The lead singer’s voice had such wonderful purity and clarity, and his falsetto was amazing.  The group’s harmonies was beautiful, and their songs were addictive and fun.  My daughter bought the CD and got the lead singer’s autograph in the break between sets.  And as she confirmed after she met him, “He’s British, which just automatically makes him cooler.”

So there you go.  Two amazing bands that need to be getting more play.  Check them out if they happen to come to a venue near you, and by all means, buy their music.

Words And Music

Listening to The Decemberists’ “Calamity Song” got me thinking about how good songs are as much poetry as they are music.  And some artists are great poets who use words that hit you unexpectedly.

Like “antediluvian” in “Calamity Song.”

When was the last time you heard that word?  Or thought it, or even thought about what it means?  But it’s such a great polysyllabic word, and so evocative, and in the song it bounces along with the music so beautifully.

Words can reach out from songs and grab us like that.

In Toad the Wet Sprocket’s “Listen,” there is a line that goes, “Call you faithless…”  “Faithless” is a punishing word, and like “antediluvian” not one you hear very often.  It leaps out at you, an accusation, a curse.

Mumford and Sons put Shakespeare on a 21st century rock album with “Sigh No More.”  “Oh, man is a giddy thing…”

Artists like Peter Gabriel and Dave Matthews and R.E.M. use words in the service of art all the time.

In fact, one of my favorite Dave Matthews songs is a complete short story with the persuasive force of a 16th century love sonnet.  There’s a guy and a girl, and they are snowed in at a cabin somewhere.  Both of them are in other relationships, yet the guy makes a convincing case for a one-night stand.  “Desire, see, is creeping up heavy…”  Mmmmmmm, yeah.  Tomorrow, we’ll go back to being friends, Dave.

Are there any songs with lyrics that just grab you?  Songs that surprise you with the words they choose?  Any musical artists that you turn to again and again for inspiration in your writing because they use words so fluently, so expertly? 

Thanks to Amy Garvey whose musical post last Friday set me off down this path.