My life in books 1

I have a blue banner with I READ 100 BOOKS blazing across it in bright white, like the nerdiest sports team you can imagine. I still have it, though I earned it (and I earned it, I assure you) in primary school. I might have been seven years old. There was a whole progression. You read one book, you got a candy. You read ten books, you got to make a clothespeg "reading bug" in arts & crafts. Twenty-five books, I have no idea. I didn't care. I was shooting for the top. 100 books. A reward for that? It was like being rewarded for breathing.

My parents are wonderful people but I can't pretend I wasn't raised at least in part by the books I've adored through my life.

The Last Puppy is about a dog that's the last to be born, the last to open his eyes, the last to eat anything, the last to walk, and of course the last to be adopted. He always gets too excited when someone comes to look at him and he runs away or bites their nose. (I've got something in my throat here. Ahem.) But then finally, finally, a little boy adopts him, and when they're on the way home (I'm tearing up...) he looks at the puppy and says, "You know what? You're my first puppy." (BAWL.)

What did this book teach me? Maybe that everything is relative. Maybe that the troubles of other people are incredibly relevant to myself when placed in the correct context. Maybe none of that. But the story stuck with me. I can't shake it. I think every hero I've written since has taken a bit of that puppy's story into their own.

Enter the chapter book! Exit innocence! Take a look at Disneyland Hostage there on the left. Liz Austen is tied up, blindfolded, and being escorted by a scary man (at gunpoint, though that isn't obvious.) So much for "the happiest place on earth." I have family in Anaheim, California, right near Disneyland. The idea that this could happen to me wasn't so far-fetched in my nine-year-old mind. And in this story, Liz Austen kicks ass. She really does. Revelation: adventure stories are fantastic! They're personally relevant! I could kick ass! I recently met Eric Wilson at the Surrey International Writers' Conference and turned into a blushing, grinning fangirl. Sorry, Eric.

And The Incredible Journey, the book on the right. Made into a literal and terrifying Disney film in 1963, and re-made into a goofy and less-believable Disney film in 1993, there's something about these animals' quest that obviously resounds through generations. For me it was about Friendship and Home and Not Giving Up, themes that appear in everything I write. And when old Bodger at last comes over that hill, running despite everything he's been through, it's grief and celebration together in one.

I wanted to post the cover of another book that influenced me: Here she is, Miss Teeny Wonderful by Martyn Godfrey, about a tomboy from outside Edmonton, Alberta, whose mother enters her in a beauty pageant and so she jumps 6 garbage pails with her BMX as her "talent." But entering "Miss Teeny Wonderful" into Google images is a dangerous thing with startling results. And then I found this eulogy because Godfrey died in 2000, so that made me sad. His books were really very fun and a great reminder that it was okay (or maybe even good) to be a tomboy, which (predictably) I was.

When I was about eleven my cousin lent me her copy of Christopher Pike's Remember Me. Pike's early novels are murder mysteries and supernatural thrillers and Eastern philosophies as experienced by sixteen year old girls in California. Remember Me has a young girl, dead, trying to solve her own murder while also figuring out the mysteries of her past. In Fall Into Darkness a girl fakes her own death to frame her best friend, and is murdered by a boy they both trust. And Season of Passage involves vampires on Mars-- yes-- and it was one of the most enchanting, bizarre and memorable stories I'd ever read. Still have ever read. There are many more. I bought and read all of them.

These stories introduced me to the murder mystery and the elaborate plan that goes fatally wrong. Dharma and karma and reincarnation. They taught me that imagination can go much, much further than wherever it has been so far, so don't stop here. Pike's books were the first that made me think, I could do this-- write stories like this. I want to. And that was that.

Next time on "My life in books:" I discover this guy and start sleeping with the lights on.

I'd love to hear about the books that influenced you, when you were too young to know any better.

Censorship of book reviews

Book reviews that rip both author and work into shreds are about as useless as book reviews that spout gooey adoration all over some favourite writer or story. But despite wasting time and space, I think both should be allowed. Books are not washing machines. Users' reactions will reflect the emotion evoked (or betrayed) by the work, whatever the reason.

As reported in the Guardian,

Cambridge-based academic, Dr Rachel Polonsky, noticed among the many favourable (Amazon) reviews of her book on Russian culture, Molotov's Magic Lantern, one condemning her efforts as "dense", "pretentious" and "the sort of book that makes you wonder why it was ever published".

It turned out that the negative reviews on this book, and in fact many other books on the same subject, were placed by the spouse of an academic rival. And in an odd bit of censorship Amazon has "removed the offending reviews." Yet how offending were these reviews, really? Here's one:

"Oh dear, what on earth were the judges thinking. The book is not nearly as good as its many plaudits in the press and book prize judges think."

It's not exactly the most vicious bit of hate-speech on the Internet. I understand authors' concern that reviews on Amazon and elsewhere show their books in the best light, but is it right that certain biases-- such as being married to a rival academic-- result in censorship, whereas others-- like not having read the entire book, or lacking an understanding of the language of publication, or being full of bullshit in some painfully obvious way otherwise-- are allowed?

Robert Service, a biographer, wrote an email to 30 British historians saying, "How to expunge the practice and expose the practitioners of malign electronic denunication in countries of free expression is, I think, a matter for debate."

I agree. In fact, I believe that in the interests of remaining countries of free expression we must debate whether we should even bother.

Kate Atkinson and "Literary Crime"

This week I'm at Librarian Bootcamp. (Send cookies please, Mom. Quiet cookies.)

I spent most of the train ride here reading, of course. Kate Atkinson writes "literary crime"-- at least, her series of novels featuring retired police inspector Jackson Brodie are literary crime, featuring a mystery (or several) wrapped in character-driven suspense.

I'd heard Atkinson speak at the Kensington Library last June, but it took until now for me to read her books. The first blew me away. "Case Histories" takes several apparently unconnected crimes over many years and weaves them together, arriving at a satisfying conclusion that feels like an ending, but isn't. When I finished it I felt like I'd witnessed something very real and wonderful.

When I read a great book I wish there was more of it, but more is not always better. With series I often end up wishing that the author had left it alone. Last week I started reading "One Good Turn," the second in Atkinson's series. It started well with a bewildering road rage incident in Edinburgh and then trailed into various new or familiar characters as they swung around the incident, interacting with each other. Near the middle of the book I began to realize that of course this wouldn't be as good as the first. The threads were too thin, the narrative too coincidental, and for a lot of the time it seemed like nothing happened.

And then the end of the book hit with flurries of connection and revelation. Atkinson backed up and away from the characters, giving a higher and further view, and then leaving them altogether. I was left feeling sad that the story was over, once again. And I wanted more. Again. It redeemed itself completely. I can't wait to read the third in the series.

During her talk in the Kensington Library, Atkinson mentioned that she likes writing crime but she doesn't want to be labelled as if that's all she could do. I think her books prove that isn't all she can do but I understand the worry. It's easy to label something Crime and then dismiss it when you want something more intellectual. But some stories include crime not as a cheap trick but to reveal the human aspects of the situation, as victim or perpetrator, from the outside, from within. This should not be dismissed. Atkinson's books give a whole tapestry around the threads that are crime, and this is how I'd like to write: more than genre, more accessible than literary. I'd like my books to be as real and surprising and moreish.

Friday Flash: "The Back Yard"

"The Back Yard"

by Jen Brubacher

The back yard was an afterthought. It clung to the the house, boxed off from its neighbours with six-foot-high slat fencing.

Opposite, in the wide front yard, there was a fish pond set central in the grass and two rows of peonies smartly lined up beside the drive. The imbalance of the yards tipped the lot forward in Martin’s mind. After his first viewing he remembered the bright main bedroom, scales glinting as the fish turned in the water, and the shale fireplace in the entryway. But he couldn’t think of anything in the back yard except dirt.

He showed his wife the listing website. There were photos taken throughout the house and from the road. It hadn’t been on the market for long.

Bea was impressed. But, “What about the back?”

Martin shook his head and frowned. “It’s not much to look at.”

They went together to see it again. The realtor, sensing a dawning commitment, let them explore on their own. On a sunny day they stared down from the en suite bathroom.

“I don’t get it.” Bea examined the other houses’ yards. “It’s all uniform, except this one. Was the lot split up?”

They asked the realtor, who shook his head. “Same as it ever was. Marvelous old neighbourhood. Pathways from each cul-de-sac through to the park. Every convenience…”

They left with a verbal agreement and had a celebratory dinner at Red Lobster.

“Just think! Next month we’ll be eating in our new home…”

Martin frowned. “I wonder if there’s room for a bar-be-que back there.”

There was the usual last-minute confusion about dates and deadlines. Their moving van had arrived before the previous owners had pulled away. Martin found his wife near the fireplace, her hand at her throat.

“Marty, did you see them? What happened?”

“I don’t know. Some kind of degenerative disease, I’d guess.”

“But it was so raw—”

“Don’t upset yourself. We’re home!”

Their life quickly settled into the new house, boxes spilling debris into the cracks of closets and cupboards. Bea lined each windowsill with plants, fragrant basil and fuzzy African violets and tiny orange trees with emerald leaves. The garden began filling up the table and counters.

Bea clipped herbs for a stew. Martin moved a plant to lay out his newspaper.

“We have a whole garden, you know. You should use it.”

“I don’t want to dig up the nice grass—”

“I meant the back.”

His wife turned to look at the kitchen window where the curtains were permanently shut. “I hadn’t even thought.”

Martin frowned. “We bought this place for more space.”

“I know.” She promised to try. She brought her garden out into the back yard and filled up its corners. The first night after the change they were woken by a bird screaming beneath their bedroom window. In the morning its feathers and blood were everywhere, strewn through the delicate plants.

“There must be a neighbourhood cat.” Martin cleaned up the mess.

Bea’s trespass invited others. When she went out to water she found the cat, stretched out and cold beneath the kitchen window. The next morning another bird. Beneath its torn wings: its shattered eggs, its young semi-formed and wet.

“I can’t go out there any more.”

Martin refused to be cowed. He brought a lawn chair and a mug of coffee, and a flashlight, and sat outside by the back door. The first few hours of the night passed slowly. He woke near midnight when he slipped off the chair. There was a mist rising up from the damp ground but nothing else worth seeing and he stomped inside.

Bea shook him at dawn. “Do you smell smoke?”

A small fire had started in the back yard and crawled up the wall towards their bedroom window. The damage was minimal.

“You can’t go out there anymore!”

“You can’t honestly believe—”

“Don’t you?”

The rash flared up the following day. Embarrassed, Martin kept it to himself until the pain was too severe. A month of ineffectual treatment and bewildered doctors convinced Bea they had to move.

“But there’s nothing wrong with you and you’ve been out there more than I have.”

“I think it knows. It knows I’m staying in here, but you tried to fight it, you sat out there and faced it—”

“It’s just a yard!”

When Bea started having regular asthma attacks Martin put his head in his hands. “I don’t know how to fight this anymore.”

“We can’t.” On the bad days she wheezed with every word.

“But this is supposed to be our home.”

She caught her breath. “Something else was here long before it was our home.”

A house in a great neighbourhood, access to every convenience, wasn’t long on the market. And it had such a terrific front yard. The fish, Martin reassured his new realtor, were extremely easy to care for.

As the new owners pulled up Bea was sliding the last of her suitcases into the car. She bent her head to avoid the strangers’ stares but Martin stood straight— as best he could— and looked them in the eye.

He heard the child whisper. “Not much to look at it, are they?”

He left them to their new home.

---

Click here for my previous Friday Flash.

I was admiring the sunny view from my back window yesterday thinking how lucky I was that the back yard was so lovely. Then I wondered, what if it wasn't? And what if it really wasn't? So this story arrived.

Photo by annathelibrarian on flickr

Now I am become Change, the destroyer of worlds

I'm a writer and a librarian. This means that while I am often lectured about the death of libraries I am also often lectured about the death of the publishing industry. Yippee.

Libraries are not dying, they're changing. People who claim no one visits libraries anymore are usually people who do not visit libraries. Surpriiise. But even if the libraries of stereotype (buildings full of books no one reads) are becoming less common, information is booming, and access to information continues to be one of the most important issues. This includes the ability to choose and organize and disseminate good and useful and even age-appropriate information in the midst of all the crap available. This is where librarians are needed. The formats are new, the sources and variables are new, but the need remains the same. Some might say-- if they could stop freaking out about the end of the world for a minute-- that the need is greater than ever. (Are you listening Gordon?)

The publishing industry is not dying, it's changing. And it's not the first time. Thanks to the Internet and ebooks the distance between writers and readers is smaller than ever. No matter how the publishers and suppliers and bookstores work it out amongst themselves (or don't) there are still great stories to be written and a discerning, willing audience to read them.  The formats are new, the sources and variables are new, but... well, you get the picture.

We are all going to die. That's a medical fact. In the meantime, this is "life." Let's not spend it frightened of each new shape on the horizon.

Further reading:
"Are libraries dying?"
"Are libraries dying?" (yes, it's a popular title)
"Time to shelve the idea of libraries' decline"
"Books gone wild"
"How to destroy the book"

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Books for burning by altemark on flickr

Alternate Version Blogfest

Today is the day you take your work in progress and see what happens when it shows up to an April Fools party. Livia Blackburne started this event by picking a scene from her YA Fantasy and then posting it in "Fight Scene" and "Scandalous Romance" versions. And that's the idea. Pick a scene of your own creation and rewrite it in a new style or genre.

My work in progress is a Suspense/Mystery novel. Here's my original scene:

The next morning the sun was back, cheerful and promising warmth, and proven a liar as soon as Sadie stepped outside. Frost laced every leaf in the front yard. Her shoes crunched on the pavement and moss as she walked out to the driveway. Her hand rested on the smooth handle of the Mustang’s driver side door, and then stayed there as her whole body froze tight. Her head pounded in panic.

There was someone inside her car.

In honour of the Orange Prize for Fiction debate that brought attention to the chasm between light and dark in women's fiction, I present my scene like so, as Irrelevant Chick-Lit:

The sun lit Sindy’s bleach-blonde curls even as the frosty air peeked through her blouse. This was not beach weather, but if it gave her a chance to wear the new orange polka-dot Dolce & Gabbana bikini she was happy to suffer.

The Cadillac’s top was down. She’d left it that way the night before, not wanting to risk her newly-painted fingernails with the contraption. But it might have been a mistake, and not just because the seats would be chilly. A long, lean specimen of a man was stretched out in the passenger seat as if he owned it. His fingers strayed playfully to his ink-black hair styled perfectly over strong brows.

“Hey,” he said. And gave her a wink with one ocean-grey eye.

Oh ho, Sindy thought. Here comes trouble.

And Prize-Winning Misery Lit:

Sarah saw sunlight and frost. Two sides of a whole. One world together, reflecting back her own dichotomy, her own uneasiness with herself. If only she could put the parts together, make them coherent. But look: even there in the world, demonstrated with the seasons and the stars, the reaching leaves of grass and crouching moss, even there the two sides were separate. Even beautiful Mother Earth birthed discord on this morning.

Her family sedan taunted her with its paleness. Far from the flash cars she’d envisioned driving in her youth, what did this one say? It said she’d given up. She was middle-aged and didn’t mind showing it to anyone. She knew that when she slipped into the seat it would conform to her soft body, the seatbelt would hold her tight where she was. It was a car for someone static. It was her fate.

This was a day like any other, indiscriminate in its banality. Until she saw the figure sitting in the passenger seat of the sedan.

Her heart was in her mouth, her hand to her throat. Who? And why? A hundred routines were shattered. She bent to peer in at the face. They were sleeping, their eyes shut, but in that sleep they betrayed the truth of themself. And here in this stranger she saw the worry of street living and the hunger of poverty. She saw a world that had never quite intersected her own before now, and with a start she realized that she longed for that chaos. That excitement. Even if she starved she desired it, because it was better than she was now, starving within her own spirit.

And then, because I was having fun, I also present Bad Sci-Fi:

The New Copenhagen assembly on Hawking Nine had ruled the narrow strip of green steel that served as a yard on all Fermat colonies off limits to civilian vehicles. Yet there was her vehicle, red Teflon shell glimmering in the binary starlight. It could glimmer all it wanted, Sadiflex thought. She knew it would be cold as hell inside. It was always cold as hell. Bloody space heater wasn’t worth the Esperantinos she’d paid for it.

She pulled the parking ticket off the windshield—some things never changed—and dropped it into the gap between her home-pod and the “yard.” Fermat colonies were always put together so poorly. She was wondering if New Copenhagen would reply to her five hundredth letter on the topic of colony management and then stopped short and stared through the plexiglass.

There was a squat grey blob dribbling off her passenger seat into the gear box.

She choked back a growl of frustration. This was the fourth beardermeyer this week!

This was a very fun exercise. Head to Livia's site and play along, or follow the #altversionfest hashtag on Twitter to read the scenes.