The Ordinary Princess

Despite my last post, I didn’t realize how personal it could be to write about favorite childhood books until I sat down to write this post. It’s hard to explain why you loved a book as a child without dredging up childhood insecurities and idiosyncrasies.

So here you are: a book recommendation and a healthy dose of self-deprecation.

One of my favorite books growing up was The Ordinary Princess by M.M.Kaye. I got it from the library and had one of those magical experiences where the book was everything I wanted it to be and more.

Two things you should know about this book:

1. It has beautiful illustrations (see above).

2. The prose is charming.

Why did I love this book as a child? I loved this book because it is all about an ordinary princess.  I had quite the ugly duckling complex as a child. I really didn't think much of my physical appearance. I felt like my older sister was the “pretty one” and I was the “smart one.” Who knows if I made this up in my head or picked this up from the small comments adults make in passing that children end up keeping in the deepest places of their hearts? But however it was that I ended up with this complex, I was enamored with Princess Amy because all of her sisters were beautiful and she was not. 

She tore her dresses and got freckles from sitting out in the sun. 

She had mousy hair. 

She was clumsy.

And she was special. Even though she wasn’t pretty and didn’t behave like a proper princess, she had a grand adventure and eventually found love, someone who thought she was beautiful just the way she was, inside and out.

I suspect that I am not the only little girl in the world to feel unattractive and unfeminine. I think my complex was and is far more universal than my solipsistic little self realized at the time. With that in mind, I highly recommend this classic tale of the conflict between inner and outer beauty, social and personal expectations, and the need for acceptance. It is an excellent book for ordinary princesses of all ages.

Books We Read as Children, Part One

When you read a book as a child, it becomes a part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your whole life does.” Kathleen Kelly, You’ve Got Mail

If you want animated conversation with a reader, ask them what books they read as a child. Invariably, their face will light up as they chronicle the books they read when they were young - sometimes completely random books that you’ve never heard of, other times classic stories that you remember reading as well.

Mind, this only works for people who have been readers from a young age. Ask the average freshman what they read when they were kids and they will stare at you blankly and mutter something about Dr. Seuss (a very good writer, I must add).

There are three strange things about favorite childhood books:

1: The books that one person claims are phenomenal, one of their favorites from childhood, a classic, are oftentimes books not many other people recognize.

2: These books will be vehemently defended by these people as wonderful books, even when other people, who are adults, read them and fail to see many (or any) redeeming qualities.

3: Therefore, it can be inferred there is some kind of magical bond that occurs when one is young and falling in love with a book, and that due to this bond, quality does not matter. 

I’m sure you have your own books that you love and reread now as an adult with fond sentimentality. For me, these books are The Blue Castle, The Blue Sword (no, these aren’t part of a series and are in two completely different genres), and The Ordinary Princess, among others.

Note my obvious penchant for novels with blue in the title.

Anyway, I recently read The Blue Castle to my husband. He agreed that it was funny, but told me, “it’s pretty much a romance.”

“No, it’s not,” I defended angrily. “It’s so funny, and it’s really about how the character changes and gets her dream life and doesn’t let her family control her any more…” my voice trailed away while my husband waited patiently.  A pause. “Okay, it’s a romance.”

The truth is, The Blue Castle, written by L.M. Montgomery, beloved author of Anne of Green Gables, is more or less a young adult romance. But to me it was so much more. When I read it as a child, the main character reminded me of the way I could be sometimes: timid, easily cowed, submissive to a fault, and dissatisfied with her life (most teens are dissatisfied with their life at one time or another). Then the character changes. She becomes bold and goes after the life she wants. That was inspiring to me as a child, and still is, really. That book became a reminder of all that I was capable of doing.

So when I read it again, and again, and again as an adult, I didn’t necessarily see the framework of any particular genre; I saw the girl I was when I first read it, remembered how I responded to it the first time I finished it (the ending is just delightful). I saw past me and present me and future me in that slim little book. I saw the flaws I struggled with then, the weaknesses I still struggle with, and all that I’ve overcome.

Years ago, a friend asked me a question dreaded by all book lovers:

“What is your favorite book?”

Groan. He noticed my dismay and quickly added, “What book do you find yourself rereading over and over?”

I’m a fairly private person and so I’m still surprised that I didn’t answer vaguely or give some scholarly answer like “Jane Austen books.” I think part of me didn't want to make myself appear more scholarly than I actually am. I was an English major and love classic authors like Dickens and Twain, so it would have been easy to put on a facade of sophistication - twirling my non-existent mustache and saying, “well it’s a toss up between Shakespeare’s Hamlet and Dickens’ Great Expectations, my good man.”

But it wasn’t true. In a moment of unexpected honesty, I replied, “The Blue Castle by L.M. Montgomery.”

My friend raised an eyebrow. “Really? That surprises me,” he said, rather unnecessarily. Then he got pulled away by someone and I was left feeling a bit deflated.

The truth is, everyone is a bit surprised by the books that have the most profound impact on other people because, to quote Edmund Wilson, “no two persons ever read the same book.” No matter how close you are to a friend or family member, you might not always fully understand why they have a bond with their favorite books. 

Why those books spoke into their life in a quiet way.

Why they saw in that book a mirror, or a vision, or a dream.

So as much as I love to discuss books and recommend books and read books that my friends are reading, I know deep down that there is a part of my reading experience that is only mine. 

Which is quite possibly the reason I keep reading.

***********

Over the next few days and weeks I'm going to venture back into the dusty cobwebs of the books I loved as a child and share them with you on this blog. I'd love to hear in the comments what some of your favorites were as a child.

A bookmark without a home

Today I finished Assassin's Apprentice, the first book of a fantasy series written by Robin Hobb. It was a fantastic finale, a nail-biter to the end, and I teared up in just the last few sentences.

Once I closed the book, I noticed my bookmark, sitting there on the couch...and I had no idea what to do with it. Where do you store a bookmark if not in a book? I am one of those people who has to have a place for everything, so this was a serious problem. I didn't want it on my nightstand, it didn't feel right in my drawer with my notebook and Bible, it couldn't just sit out on top of a random book.

It was quite the conundrum. I finally just decided I'd have to start another book immediately so I'd have a place to keep it.

But now I want to know: Where do you store your bookmarks?

That way I can have a backup plan in case my bookmark becomes homeless again.

Merry Christmas!

“And it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!” 

- Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
Enjoy the holiday season! Keep Christmas well!

Top 10 gifts for the book lover on your list

I know how challenging it can be to pick out Christmas gifts for someone you love. I am married to the gift-giving ninja, so I’m familiar with the panic that ensues when you want to get something meaningful, special, and unique, but you end up getting them a gift card. (Not that there is anything wrong with gift cards. I’ve grown to appreciate them for the guilt-free spending sprees that they are.) When it comes to gifts for book lovers, however, I consider myself an expert. Hopefully this guide is useful to you (and who knows, you might end up adding a few items to your own wish list!)

If you have any gift suggestions to add to the list, feel free to post in the comments below. Share your brilliant ideas and spread the magic of Christmas!

10: Mugs with literary quotes.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that all book lovers like to drink either tea or coffee. They also must do so out of beautiful vessels, because that is the most inspiring way to drink tea or coffee. Though your book-loving friend may already have several dozen mugs, they can always use more. These beautifully designed mugs made by an Etsy seller will be sure to delight.

9: Library candles

If you can’t have Mark Twain sitting next to you in your living room, at least your living room can smell like Mark Twain. Head over to paddywax.com (hehehe), and browse their collection of library candles that truly capture the essence of various famous authors and their books. Some of my favorites include Mark Twain, which has “tobacco flower & vanilla fragrance notes,” and Edgar Allan Poe, which has “cardamom, absinthe & sandalwood fragrance notes.”

8: The smell of books

As I mentioned in a recent post, almost all book lovers are enthralled by the scent of books. Now, you can bottle that scent and give it to them (sort of). Paper Passion is a perfume for book lovers that supposedly smells like “that peculiar mix of paper and ink which gives a book its unmistakable aroma, along with the fresh scent which a book opened for the first time releases” (according to amazon.com). I’m not sure if your book lover wants to smell like a book themselves, but they could always use it to freshen up moldy books or just sniff it like a junky whenever they crave the smell of books. If this seems too much like a gag gift, maybe stick with the old stand by, candles. The seller Frostbeard on Etsy has a collection of candles for book lovers that include scents such as Old Books, Bookstore, Sherlock’s Study, etc… Honestly, one can never have too many candles.

7: Book art

Get your bookworm a book made into poster, a shirt, or a tote. Over at litographs.com, you can find art made out of the FULL TEXT of various classic novels. My favorites include Hamlet and Pride and Prejudice.

6: Books about books (Meta books. Yep, that's a thing. I googled it.)

It seems obvious, but why don’t you get a person who loves books…MORE BOOKS. Because we can never have enough books. Ever. 

To put a creative spin on this suggestion, look for books that talk about books. I suggest Novel Destinations, a book about places around the world that have literary history, from authors’ homes and museums to locations that played important roles in classic literature. As discussed on a previous post, for Hemingway types who like a little booze to go with their books, you could purchase Tequila Mockingbird (Cocktails with a Literary Twist according to the subtitle). The Reading Promise is a memoir about a girl and her father who made a commitment to read for 1000 days without missing a single one. The Shelf: Adventures in Extreme Reading is a book about a woman who decided to experiment by reading all the books on one shelf of the library regardless of their contents and quality (or lack thereof). Or if you want to stress your friend out by essentially giving them a really really really long to-read list try Book Lust: Recommended Reading for Every Mood, Moment, and Reason. 

There are also many excellent works of fiction that focus on books (one of my favorites is The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde); a quick google search for "books about books" should give you plenty of options.

5: Magazines about books

There are a number of great magazines about books out there including Bookmarks, the London Review of Books, Publishers Weekly, and the New York Review of Books. Magazines make great Christmas gifts because they are literally the gift that keeps on giving.

4: Games about books

When I was little, my sister used to get mad at me when she wanted to play with me and I refused because I was reading. Maybe if she’d had some of these awesome, book-inspired games, I would have taken a (temporary) break from my paper world for a world of flesh and blood. Get these games for those bookworms that need a little encouragement to interact with others every once in awhile.

Haikubes is “a set of 63 word cubes that is attractive enough to display on the coffee table. Simply roll the cubes and use the words that come up to create an expressive haiku” (amazon.com). 

Bookopoly is a creative, book-themed Monopoly - in other words, way less boring than regular Monopoly. According to dodoburd.com, throughout the game, you “build book clubs and libraries on literary classics such as The Grapes of Wrath and The Great Gatsby; collect different genres; and pick up Knowledge and Explore cards for bonuses as you make your way around the board. But watch out for Book Club Fees and don’t get stuck Watching TV or you’ll lose three turns.” 

Another aptly named game, The Storymatic is a story generating game that can be played alone or in groups. As one amazon reviewer complained, all the game variations included in the box basically have you draw cards and tell a story — but for me, that’s a selling point, obviously. I spent lunchtime as a kid with my siblings telling increasingly absurd tales as we built on each other's stories. It was a blast, and I’m sure this game is just as entertaining.

3: Book lover’s basket

Sure, this isn’t exactly the most original gift idea (you can pretty much put “gift basket” behind anything and ta da! it’s a gift) but this might actually be a gift basket worth getting (and giving). Here is why: there is a reason why your friend is a book lover. They love books because they love to read them. And almost all book lovers like to read curled up with a blanket, a cup of tea, a good book, a cute bookmark, and maybe a snack that doesn’t get your fingers too dirty to turn the pages. Also, it should be raining. We read in millions of other settings too of course (peripatetic reading should be a sport), but this is our preferred setting. So why not make that dream come true for a reader you love? Put a cozy blanket, a bookmark, a gift card to their favorite bookstore, tea or coffee, a mug or teacup, a book, a snack, and some rain in a basket with a beautiful bow. Just don’t be mad if they vanish on Christmas day into the book cocoon that you so kindly purchased for them.

2: Their literary thumbprint

All book lovers would agree that certain books impact you in ways profound and become a part of your identity. Each person’s reading history is unique and what better way to capture that than with your thumbprint made out of your favorite book titles? Cherylsorg over at Etsy (good ol’ Etsy!) does just that; using a list of 50 - 60 of your favorite books and your thumbprint, she turns your reading life into a work of art. This is a pricey gift, but it would truly be a treasure.

1: Make fiction reality.

Obviously the number one absolutely most amazing gift you could ever give a book lover is a chance to step into one of their favorite books. I realize this is logistically impossible, but a close second to climbing into a book world is to go places that make it seem like you are climbing into a book world: take your friend on a trip to visit their favorite author’s old house or go to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter at Universal Studios in Florida. Depending on your location, this may be more feasible for some of you than others. 

A gift like this would be more than worth all the hard work and money you put into it; this is the best gift for any book lover, because ultimately, we seek a world other than our own when we read and standing in liminal places like 221B Baker Street or the Charles Dickens museum, these two worlds — the world that is our lives and the worlds in our books — find common ground and we experience the surreal moment where things imagined become tangible. 

So don't dismiss this suggestion too quickly. Spend some time researching your area if you can’t go very far; you might be surprised at what you find that is within a reasonable distance. Or check out Novel Destinations from your library for ideas. 

For those of you in the Oregon area, another option is to check out the Sylvia Beach hotel, a cozy hotel with author-themed rooms that would make any book lover swoon. 

Sharing is risky

I recently read a nonfiction book of the stunt genre variety (where an author tries something out, usually for a specific period of time, and then writes about the experience).

I did not like the book.

I felt bad, because the reason I did not like the book was because I didn’t like the author. I felt terribly guilty about this, for some reason. Here I was, reading the inner musings and confessions of another human being and it made me not like her as a person. That’s a low blow.

I couldn’t even write a review on Goodreads, explaining why I gave it one star, because my reason would have been: I don’t like the author as a person. I imagined what I would feel like if I was an author and I sat down and read a Goodreads review where someone judged not my book, but me as a person. So I kept my thoughts to myself and didn’t write the review.

A few weeks later a good friend of mine gave me her manuscript to read. I was incredibly honored. As I finished the last page and was putting it carefully back into its box, I thought about how difficult it must be as a writer to go from writing as a private activity to a public activity. The best writing is deeply personal in some way, even if it’s fiction, even if the story is about a pink rhinoceros who wants to become the world’s greatest trumpet player, buried deep under all those layers of story is the mind who created it and underneath that are all those experiences that shaped that mind.

On his blog, Storyline, Donald Miller discusses how writers should be vulnerable in their writing. He says, “Even if you’re writing fiction, you should feel like you’re telling secrets. And they should be deep, dark secrets you’d only tell your most trusted friend. Remember, when we write we are becoming the temporal companion of the reader, and if we want them to trust us, we have to give up our secrets.”

Even if we don’t take Donald Miller’s advice and we aren’t trying to be vulnerable in our writing, some vulnerability is inevitable. We may reveal ourselves in the smallest phrase, a minor character, an inconsequential plot point. And we lay bare for every reader a part of ourselves.

This would be fine if every reader was your best friend and loved you unconditionally. But that’s not the reality that any published writer faces. They spend months, years, pouring themselves into their work, which is then shared with masses of strangers who take it, judge it, assess it casually, and make a detached decision about it.

I personally have always been of the “keep it secret, keep it safe,” variety when it comes to writing (I say, on my very public blog). To be honest I’m a little overwhelmed now that I know a few people are actually reading my blog. Before, I had a blog, but no one read it, so it felt very safe. It was just an online notebook. I felt like I was sharing, but I wasn’t actually risking anything. So this blog is an unusual experiment (not of the stunt genre variety) for me as I learn what it is like to have someone other than a professor read something that I’ve written.

I don’t think that everyone must share their writing or that only good writers should share their writing; I believe it’s a personal choice and there are a lot of things to take into account when you decide if you will write only for yourself, for your family and friends, or if you will share it with the world.

That said, I also think there is something decidedly scary about taking action of any kind. When we are passive, it is much easier. We can blame bad things that happen on other people, the universe, God. When we take action, we are taking responsibility for our lives. We are taking great risk. What if we regret X? We won’t be able to take X back. What if we were happier before X? Then we will wish we hadn’t done X and it will be all our fault.

For me, sharing my writing is taking a great big risk; maybe no one will like it, or I will discover that I am a terrible writer, or my pride will get wounded, I’ll offend someone with my ideas, or worse yet people will actually learn what my ideas are and I won’t be able to hide anymore.

These are all great reasons to delete my blog and go back to typing up very long and secret Word documents that no one will ever see.

But great events might transpire because I shared my writing. Or small events that are wonderful, events I would otherwise have missed.

So I’m taking the risk because by not sharing, while I am not rocking the boat, I am not even on the boat. I’m safe on the good ol’ boring metaphorical shore, waving while others embark on adventures. By sharing my writing, I’m cutting loose the rather cliche anchor and I’m off on an adventure (the size of which is still yet to be determined, but it’s an adventure nonetheless), leaving the harbor, and traveling through uncharted waters.

I will let you know in a few months if it was worth it. I suspect it will be. Meanwhile, I will be kind when I read and will do my best to refrain from writing that review on Goodreads...

What writing risks have you taken? I'd love to hear about them! Share in the comments below.

A new take on the to-do list

I am a list person. I love lists, even when they stress me out slightly because I keep adding to them so they are never really done. Still, there is nothing more satisfying than crossing something off that list.

Or is there?

There just might be. This post from Lifehacker, suggests turning your to-do list into a story, complete with tragic metaphors, if you like, and your grocery list.

Check it out, and then stay tuned for updates. I just might try this and if I do, I will share my story (my to-do story?) with you. Share yours in the comments below.

For all my book-sniffing friends (you know who you are!)

Nymag.com has a list of reasons to love New York, including...

16. Because We’re Home to Not Only the Publishing Industry But Also to a Woman Who Spends Her Days Smelling Books

I think you know that books have captivated you in a unique way when you start smelling them. I think you can also tell who was raised with lots of books (or went to the library and bookstores a lot as a kid) based on rather or not they love the smell of books. It's like when people love the smell of apple pie because it reminds them of home. Why should book smelling be any different?

I still remember recognizing the smell of our local bookstore when we lived in a small town in Northern California. I was very young, so I can't picture the store very well, just a few odd shelves and parts of the children's section; but I remember recognizing that comforting smell as soon as I walked in the door - and loving it.

Not all bookstores smell great, and they don't all smell the same. We moved out of Northern California when I was around 8, and we found a new local bookstore. I still visit this bookstore on a regular basis. It has a weird smell that's a cross between Goodwill, your grandma's house, and old paper. I have one friend who won't even go to this store because she hates the smell so much. But I love it, because I spent lots of time there as a kid, trying to contain my excitement as I perused the mountains of books before me. For me, this store smells like possibility. As in, today I might discover the best book of my life or a new favorite author. Today might be the day I buy a book that changes my life.

So I breathe that smell in deeply. And I know that many of you out there do the same.

So let's hear from all those book sniffers out there. What is your favorite book to smell? Any book smelling rituals? Best-smelling bookstore? Do you prefer the smell of old or new books? Tell me all your book-smelling secrets!

Why NaNoWriMo?

It’s 7:30 pm and I just put the baby to bed. A quiet peace descends almost instantly over the apartment as I quickly pick up all her toys and start doing the dishes. I still need to make and eat dinner and somehow I just can’t put my feet up until the apartment is clean. And I have to write about 2000 words tonight before I can relax. I groan inwardly. Why had I made this ridiculous commitment?

Every November, thousands of people across the world participate in NaNoWriMo. It’s National Novel Writing Month, and these crazy individuals decide to commit to writing a novel in 30 days. 30 days, 50,000 words.

When I first heard of NaNoWriMo I was ecstatic. “Sign me up!” I crowed and spent 7 feverish days thinking how wonderful this was and how surprisingly easy it was.

Then I hit a wall and couldn’t make it much further. It began to seem silly to sacrifice my sleep (sleep is very important to me) and time spent relaxing while I slaved away at a self-inflicted assignment. It felt like school again. Isn’t creativity supposed to make you happy? Maybe I just don’t like writing as much as I thought I did. I gave up at about 15,000 words.

I tried again the next year. I made it to 22,000. Once again, my heart just wasn’t in it. Plus I had a job – I was a first year English teacher, so the only writing I was doing was lesson plans and corrections on papers.

The next year I didn’t even sign up. What was the point? It would just stress me out unnecessarily and make me feel guilty – which is so weird, because why would you feel guilty for not writing a novel in a month?

This year however, I was determined. I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it; I could make the commitment and follow through. Also, I wasn’t working because I was taking a year off to spend time with my beautiful brand new daughter. What excuse could I possibly make?

Turns out a lot. While staying at home with my daughter has been a delight, it’s also surprisingly exhausting. Often, I would try writing during her naps so that once she went to bed for the night I could relax. Suddenly I was shirking all sorts of responsibilities so that I could cram in an hour or two of writing every day. Because I tried to write in the mornings, I was going grocery shopping, running errands, and taking walks later and later or sometimes not at all. Then there were those days when it just didn’t happen and there I was, with my eyes wanting to close, or my mind just wanting to turn off with a book or a TV show instead of plunking out some truly terrible prose that I knew was no good – all for what? So I could say, “Hey everyone, I wrote 50,000 words of crap! I will never ever show this to anybody, and I didn’t even manage to finish my story, so I didn’t even technically write a novel in a month. But I got a cool certificate and this little bar on the NaNoWriMo website turned purple when it used to be blue!”

Yeah, that was pretty much the reason.

The day I finished NaNoWriMo I was elated. I made it to 50,000 words and my husband, daughter and I went out for eggnog lattes. I felt successful, I felt proud that I had seen it through to the end, but most of all I really felt relieved that my time would be my own again, that I could invite my sister over to hang out at the end of the day instead of sitting by myself grumpily writing – or worse, ignoring what she was saying and wishing she would leave soon because I still had to write my 1,667 words before bed.

But two days later, I found myself itching to write. It was December 3^rd, and I hadn’t written in 2, going on 3, days. I wanted to pull out the computer and delve into sentence formulation again. I missed it.

There are many people who have a lot to say about how NaNoWriMo isn’t worth it. It leaves you with a crappy novel, it makes writing stressful rather than fun, makes creativity a to-do item instead of a delight, it’s a rather futile activity. Surely, it is all these things for some people.

BUT.

But they say it takes 30 days to make something a habit, and I’m pretty sure writing on a regular basis is a habit for me now.

And I’ve read over and over again that writers don’t always like writing. They need (as in a deep down, soul-wrenching need) to write though, and so they do it anyway. That’s a lot like NaNoWriMo.

And if we aren’t doing anything creative because we keep putting it off, maybe we need to add it to our to do list – so we actually will do it.

My husband and I often talk about how strange it is that human beings know something is good for them, know that once they get started on it, they will enjoy themselves and feel good because of it, yet we refuse to do this thing. The best example of this in my life is exercise. I hate exercising. More than the average person. I will come up with almost any reason NOT to exercise. Which is strange, because when I work out, I feel great. I’ve trained for and run a half marathon before – it felt wonderful and I felt healthy and had a good body image for the first time in my whole life. But as soon as the half-marathon was over, I stopped. Then I did kickboxing for awhile. I hated going, but loved it once I got there. I would drive home from work and try to think of excuses that could get me out of going to kickboxing class. My husband pretty much made me go, and I always thanked him afterwards (though I cursed him inwardly while I was driving there) because I felt so good, and I’d really enjoyed it.

NaNoWriMo is like that for people who tell themselves, and sometimes others, that they want to write, they’d love to write a novel someday, they wish they could get paid to write for a living, they wish they had time to write. NaNoWriMo can be the fuel that changes these people – myself included – from “someday” people into “now” people. Even if that means making yourself write an abysmal novel when you’d rather be sleeping.

A few excellent Goodreads quotes from people who know what they are talking about should sum this up nicely:

“Writing is like breathing, it's possible to learn to do it well, but the point is to do it no matter what.”
- Julie Cameron

“Those who write are writers. Those who wait are waiters.” - A. Lee Martinez

“It's hell writing and it's hell not writing. The only tolerable state is having just written.” - Robert Haas

Time to stop being a waiter. See you next November.

P.S. If you do undertake the challenge next year, I’d love to be your writing buddy. My i.d. on the NaNoWriMo website is ashill. Hope to hear from you!

TEDtalk: "Why a good book is like a secret door" by author Mac Barnett

The last few minutes of this talk inevitably put a smile on my face every time I listen to it. Watch it. Share it. Make your day better. I promise you won't regret it.

Book Review of A Series of Unfortunate Events

I love these books. If I were a kid, I would give these books 5 out of 5 stars. Since I am an adult, they were a bit too easy of a read for e to give them 5 stars. For some reason, that is how my brain works.

What I love about these books is that they are witty. It is rare to find children's books that rely on wit for their humor instead of situational comedy. 

The characters are two-dimensional, the plot isn't complex; it is simply a story of orphans (each with an assigned character trait: one is smart and reads, one is smart and builds things, one is smart and bites things) who are running from an evil man (who is horribly, overtly evil for no other reason than that he is evil) who wants their money. But the fact that the story is overly simple doesn't matter because the narrator/author Lemony Snicket is sly and witty and amusing and doleful. 

Plain and simple plot. Witty narrator. Hilarious stories.

The magic of nonfiction

       

  Two Christmases ago my husband bought me a new journal. Its spine was stiff, the pages yellow and filled with empty gray lines, waiting for the magic of pen touching to paper, connecting thoughts with words and becoming matter. The blank page has always inspired me. More exciting even than beginning to fill it up was when I got a new notebook or journal and I sat down and decided what I wanted to use it for: Lists? Hopes and dreams? Learning? Poetry? Stories? Often, the notebooks became a mishmash of all these things, like our lives are, a combination of the mundane and extraordinary, the prosaic and the whimsical.

Despite my obsession with blank pages, I viewed my own life as more of a fill-in-the-blank type of story. Or possibly one of those choose-your-own-adventure books. I fully acknowledged that my choices impacted my future and shaped who I became; I didn’t acknowledge that my choices were almost limitless. I could never be a rock star, for instance. I was both too practical and too talentless. That was not an option for me. I could never move to New York and work in the publishing field; that was too far from the familiar safety of the west coast and far too competitive of a career – I would be like Anne Hathaway in Devil Wears Prada, only with books instead of clothes. That just didn’t seem like it would ever happen to me.

Then one beautiful winter day…everything changed.

Until this particular day, I upheld a secret, unuttered oath never to read and enjoy nonfiction, especially of the “self-help” variety (condescension dripping from every unuttered syllable). December of 2013 I saw a video online about the 10 item wardrobe and I thought, “how very minimalist and what a perfect excuse to spend money on nice clothing.” I found a book that described the 10 item wardrobe, along with many other suggestions for how to live your life and (gasp!) I requested it from the library (I couldn’t buy it, it was nonfiction) and my oath was snapped in two because I accidentally enjoyed it.

It wasn’t quite a self-help book; it was more a book of…lifestyle suggestions. I read it and was completely taken in. It was inspiring. I felt the tingling of possibility. I felt like boring little me, the girl who will never be fashionable, who rarely wears make-up, who lives a humble life that no one particularly admires could become Storybook Me, the girl who has always existed in my mind as a daring, confident young woman who surrounds herself with beauty and is admired by men and women alike for her simple but stylish dress and unassuming but lovely appearance. It was intoxicating and addicting. What other inspirations waited for me in the world of nonfiction? What other books might expand this chink that I had made in my concept of myself? Could I possibly chip away until this small crack became a large passage, allowing light to flood in and reveal my hidden potential?

I won’t go through every evolution that followed this initial affair with nonfiction. The long and the short of it was that I found myself gravitating toward books that offered me guidance: books on pregnancy and parenting, books on spirituality, books on friendship, and books on self-acceptance. Slowly, even as I became disgruntled with one book, unimpressed by another, bored by some, and swept away by some, I began to change the way I viewed myself and my life.

By far the most influential of all these was the book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years by Donald Miller. It was this book that taught me that life was what you made it; your story was yours, completely, and if you didn’t like the story you were living, you could and should change it. Dream big, this book whispered. Stop aiming low.

To a certain extent, the fill-in-the-blank story still feels true to me, despite all that I’ve learned. We are born into a certain social class, with specific demographic information working for or against us. But too many of us fall into these lives that we feel born into without ever stopping to ask if this is really what we want. There are many things that we dream of doing, but feel, that couldn’t possibly happen to me. Other people get published, other people start nonprofits, other people…Not me.

This journey through the world of the realistic, the oh-so-drab world of nonfiction, has taught me that my own reality can be as magical as any piece of fiction. My life is a blank page, an empty canvas. The difference between other people and me is that they were willing to try and pursue their dream; they didn’t assume that it couldn’t happen to them. Life, it turns out, is not like the board game – you don’t get a list of finite options and then spin a wheel to see if you get lucky. (With 30k a year, I better marry a doctor! I won’t be a billionaire at this rate and will probably have to review other retirement options at the end of the game!)

There is no wheel of fortune. There is just a notebook filled with empty lines, and every day from the moment you wake up, you make your imprint on those pages, inking in your identity, your world, your stories.

Why bother writing?

When I was little I spent an inordinate amount of time writing truly terrible fiction. I read frequently, but apparently much of what I read didn’t impact or improve my writing until I was much, much older. Meanwhile, ten-year-old me would craft story after story about heroines who were all named Laura or Elizabeth and all had extremely limited vocabulary, but somehow still managed to win the boy and defeat the evil headmistress at the orphanage.

Later, I reread my stories and realized that I was a terrible writer. I decided to spare the world any more attempts at authorial fame and stopped my creative writing efforts.

The older I got, the more the idea of writing a novel seemed absurd. I was far too practical for that. The odds of getting published were slim to none. The odds that I had talent even slimmer and I didn’t like the idea of doing of something that I was bad at. Sadly, this attitude has stopped me from doing many things in my life, from taking many risks that could have potentially been rewarded, and from learning things that would have helped me grow as a person.

I am not sure at what pivotal moment I started writing fiction again. I think one of my friends started talking about her own creative writing pursuits and in a nostalgic fit I broke out the laptop and tapped out some fairly decent – or at least not completely abysmal – prose. Then NaNoWriMo happened. I heard about NaNoWriMo from this same friend and was instantly intrigued – write a novel in a month? What’s more, write a novel in my FAVORITE month (November)? Why not! I made it to 22,000 words that month on a goal of 50,000. It was much harder than I’d anticipated. But the damage had been done and I was officially writing again. Not only that, I had two (TWO!) different story ideas bouncing around.

This was momentarily delightful, but soon writing began to seem like a waste of time – what purpose did it serve, after all? I certainly wasn’t going to be able to make a career out of it. The more research I did, the more evident it became that unless I was fast friends with someone in New York who happened to be an agent, it was unlikely that I would ever get published. So why rack up outrageous word counts on sub-par novels only to have them sit in a file on my computer?

My enthusiasm waned.

I trudged through a few different novel ideas, always running out of steam quickly once I reread my prose (once I was over 30,000 into a novel when I realized it was utter garbage and stopped the draft).

And therein lies my dilemma. I cannot separate the creative act of writing from my skill. I have the mistaken notion that art must well-done to be worth doing – a theory that complete ignores the artistic and creative process. A theory that ignores the pleasure derived from creating something out of your own head, with your own hands. A theory that claims that art is only worthwhile if it makes it out into the light to be appreciated (or despised) by others.

Recently however, I believe I discovered a cure to this debilitating viewpoint.  I read Chris Baty’s No Plot, No Problem, a manual on inspiration, the writing process, and quarantining your inner editor. Baty assures his readers that the joy of writing novels is found in using your imagination to tell stories, no matter how terrible, and just because you can. In short, writing is about the joy it brings you, not about any hoped for material gain or fame – and therefore, it doesn’t matter how good your novel is, it only matters that you wrote it.

And so, dear readers, I will henceforth no longer regard my writing as just verbal spewing on a page, but MY verbal spewing on a page, the spewing of which I very much enjoyed. I will find joy and entertainment in writing my novel instead of pride, which is far too fickle, and I will view novel writing as a new kind of literary therapy, as rewarding and entertaining as reading a book.

If you are lucky, perhaps I will treat you to a sample of my latest caper…it is about a young, dynamite blonde named Beth who works as an editor for Webster’s dictionary and therefore has an absurdly large vocabulary, but alas! her evil boss has it out for her and never lets her leave, which is why she has no love life -- until she decides to overthrow her boss and start her own dictionary!

Happy noveling to you all.