* First off, more on the Google Books Settlement. Richard Curtis asks where all the “concerned” people were before all the work was done. More links, of course, as I find them. Feel free to post links in the comments, but keep the shouting/arguing to a minimum, ‘kay? Thanks.

* Just finished The Storm of War, which for a one-book history of WWII was magisterial and pretty good. Some of the author’s assertions I don’t agree with, but I can see how he got there. Moved from that to digesting Disease, Desire, And The Body… in little pieces, and was thrilled to find an intersection with Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s thought in the Introduction. (Homosocial bonds, etc.) I’m also blazing through The Vagabond. I’d forgotten how much I love Colette.

I’m trying to figure out which books to take with me on the trip. I’ll have a lot of time while on the plane and train to read. I’m thinking some JR Ward and This Republic of Suffering, with Epistemology of the Closet for when I feel ambitious.

Yes, I am obsessing over what books to take. It’s better than my usual angst over flying. You don’t even know.

* From Digby:

Seriously, if they can’t support those reforms, which are even supported by the insurance companies themselves, then regulation will never be enough to keep the system honest. A public plan will be impossible to dismantle once it’s in place and will not discriminate against sick people. If they keep premiums low enough to attract some healthy people as well, it will provide enough competition to keep these insurance company greedheads and psycho Republicans from doing their worst. It’s a necessity.

I love how it’s the reformers who everyone believes are trying to kill people when it’s these defenders of the status quo who actually are. (Digby)

It’s funny, but the conservative side of the healthcare debate, with its lunatic fringe yelling about Nazism and death panels, is a huge exercise in projection. They’re trying to pin on everyone else the things–i.e., killing people who don’t agree with them–they actually ascribe to, the things their poster boys do. Words can’t express my disgust at this point. Though Barney Frank does a good job. And so does the Rude Pundit, who is not for the faint-of-heart and NSFW either. (You’ve been warned.)

Glenn Greenwald, in his typically logical and nonemotional way, details what’s actually driving the healthcare reform process and debate.

I just feel like, come on people. We could put a man on the moon, fer Chrissake. We can figure out how to get healthcare for everyone, the way other developed countries do. Quit being idiots. And at the same time, I feel weary contempt for the lies and fear-and-hatemongering going around, but I don’t know why I’m surprised. This is business as usual from the jerkwads who brought us Fox News. Yawn. Let’s do something productive instead, mmmkay?

I’m almost glad I’m going to be taking an enforced break from blogging next week while traveling. I’m worn out.

And that, as they say, is that.

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1. From Script As Cow To Hypnerotomachia Poliphili
2. Crispety Crunchety Lili
3. Week. From. Hell.

I’ve got tons to do today–two guest blog thingies and feeding the snake, dinner and housecleaning and wordcount–so this is necessarily brief. I know I’ve promised to post a couple recipes and I will get on that as soon as I find a way to do it–I might just put ‘em in PDF and stick them up or something. But that’s far down on the list. And…well, there’s struggle. Things are a bit hectic here.

Anyway. I finished rereading The Unicorn’s Secret (I have the 1986 edition, I think, that dates to before Einhorn was extradited from France.) That’s something not a lot of people know about me: I read a fair amount of true crime.

I know, you’re not surprised.

I also started on The Storm of War, which I read a good review on in The Economist. (Like I need a reason to read another WWII book, especially those that focus on the Eastern Front.) I’m still motoring through Epistemology of the Closet and recently got my greedy hands on a copy of Disease, Desire, and the Body in Victorian Women’s Popular Novels Academic writing is slow for me to plod through but I enjoy it.

And that is all the news that’s fit to print out here. I have my Friday post well in mind too. No wonder I feel scattered.

Over and out.

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1. Three Things Thursday
2. Quick Check-In
3. Gray Morning

* The Elegance of the Hedgehog, by Muriel Barbery. Oh. My God. I LOVED this book. It was beautifully written, wonderfully constructed, lovingly translated, and Barbery did not punk out on the ending. The concierge Madame Michel looks like any other 54-year-old concierge in an upper-class Paris apartment building. This is camouflage. She is in reality an autodidact, a connoisseur of art, literature, classical music, and film. The privileged, hyperintelligent girl Paloma plans to kill herself on her next birthday because adult life is a sham. Both of them are doomed to loneliness and self-destruction…but then a new tenant moves in, and an odd sort of salvation between dissimilar creatures takes place.

I won’t lie. The book made me cry, especially the part about the camellias. And I expected Barbery to go for the Hallmark ending and ruin a great book, and she didn’t. My faith in humanity is officially restored.

* Interpreter of Maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri. I blame Bam for this. She was reading Lahiri the other day and tweeted that Interpreter of Maladies got a Pulitzer–a collection of short stories, getting a Pulitzer. I had to read it. I flat-out loved every story. I am still thinking about Mrs. Sen, though I suspect my favorite story is a toss-up between Sexy and A Real Durwan. The only wrong note was The Third And Final Continent, mostly because the exposition at the end seemed like a case where the writer got tired and took the easy way.

I find Lahiri very Ibsen-like. There is not a great deal of motion on the surface; it is mostly interior action. This is difficult to pull off without getting boring, but Lahiri does it brilliantly.

* Her Majesty’s Spymaster, Stephen Budiansky. This is history the way it’s meant to be told. Action-packed, deftly explained, and occasionally hysterically funny in a dry academic way, this slim biography of Walsingham–the man who, more than anyone other than Cecil, kept Queen Elizabeth I on the throne–just knocked it out of the park for me. It starts with a gripping description of the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre and managed to make me finally understand what the hell was going on with Mary Queen of Scots and why she and Elizabeth acted the way they did. I’ve read other books that haven’t given me half as much insight into Elizabethan society and political maneuvering.

* Along For The Ride, Sarah Dessen. I’m a big, big Dessen fan. I bought this in hardcover because I couldn’t wait. (Dessen’s Dreamland is one of the best YA books I’ve ever read, hands-down.) The protagonist, Auden, is an insomniac overachiever, dealing with her parents’ divorce. In trademark Dessen style, with lyricism and deft characterization, Auden finds solace in nighttime rambles with another insomniac, a boy haunted by a deadly accident. However, it’s in Auden’s relationship with her stepmother and her halting, painful relationship with her demanding mother, that Dessen’s craft really shines. A very solid, very beautiful YA book.

If I ever meet Sarah Dessen in person my brain is going to melt from the sheer fangirl squee. Nuff said.

So, it’s been a good run for me lately. I’m still working very slowly on other books, ones I either have to savor or slow down and really untangle each word of. Obfuscation is considered a sign of academic and literary athleticism, but it’s hell to work through even when one loves the material.

Poor, poor me. Yeah, I’m just unlucky all over, ain’t I.

Over and out.

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I’ll be honest: this book is largely for women. From the back of the book:

A date won’t take “no” for an answer. The new nanny gives a mother an uneasy feeling. A stranger in a deserted parking lot offers unsolicited help. The threat of violence surrounds us every day. But we can protect ourselves, by learning to trust–and act on–our gut instincts.

These are female problems. As de Becker himself points out, there’s a basic rift in our society: at bottom men are afraid women will laugh at them, women are afraid men will kill them. Women are also socialized to make us good victims, another thing de Becker deconstructs. We’re taught to play nice, get along, make someone feel better, let someone down easy. Even if we do feel uneasy, or if our intuition tells us something is off, we’ll play along just to be nice.

And a lot of times, these nice cooperative things are used so someone can get inside our homes or our lives to hurt us. We are capable of predicting the behavior of our fellow beings–we do so every day we drive, stand in a line, talk on the phone with a friend, get on an airplane, or do any number of everyday things. We are experts when it comes to other human beings, and we often get into trouble when we don’t trust what our expertise tells us.

De Becker also speaks directly about the techniques someone will use to get within range before they perpetrate violence on you, techniques like “typecasting”, “loan sharking”, and “too many details”. I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen these techniques used, and having something to call them helps immensely. Not only does it give these techniques, but it also gives women permission and strategies for shorting them out. This can help in all sorts of situations, not just the ones we’re afraid might erupt into violence. And it was immensely helpful and

I found this book immensely, intensely valuable. I’m going to be buying copies to give to my sisters and my female friends, as well as recommending it at the bookstore. It’s taken me thirty years and several bad encounters before I’m comfortable saying “no” or enforcing my personal boundaries. If I’d read this book sooner I could probably have saved myself a lot of grief.

There are flaws with this book. Chief among them is de Becker not talking about one of the bigger reasons women stay in abusive relationships–because the first thing an abuser tries to do is get control of the financial situation, and women (especially women with children) often cannot afford to leave without starving on the streets. He also glosses over the shell-shock and several other important issues when it comes to battering and domestic violence. I can see that it’s outside the purview of what he set out to write, and all in all the book is so goddamn valuable this is a tiny little quibble.

De Becker also talks about separating anxiety, uneasiness, or other feelings from fear. Fear is a survival mechanism, and it’s serious business. Jacking yourself up to feel fear when you don’t need to–a trick lots of people do with the help of the evening news–is counterproductive, because it drowns out all those little things your intuition is taking note of to help keep you safe.

The book is a quick read, and I’ve marked several passages for rereading. Going through and reading a self-help book won’t actually change anything, I know–but reading a self-help book, paying attention, and working hard on the issues you find will help.

Case in point? About halfway through this book I had an Encounter.

It was after dark, and the kids and I were at Safeway picking up some groceries at the end of a long day. The UnSullen One stopped with the kids at the quarter machines–he saves his quarters from change and gives them to the kids to get stickers, gumballs, or little figurines at the bank of machines at the grocery store. I carried four bags and two gallons of milk out to the car, he would bring the kids when they were done.

I scanned the parking lot. There were a couple people on foot talking to someone in a parked car, and they made me slightly uneasy. I am a tempting target–female, weighed down with groceries, alone. I kept an eye on them while I walked to my car, got everything in the trunk, and since I had them in my peripheral vision I was prepared when they approached. A man and a woman, both obviously homeless.

“Excuse me,” the man says, politely enough. I slammed my trunk and turned on my heel. “Can I ask you a favor?”

No you can’t, I think, but I draw myself up and make eye contact. “You can ask.”

“Do you happen to have a spare $2.50 for the bus?” He’s sizing me up. I can feel it, and the woman is looking at the ground.

“The bus?” I raise an eyebrow.

The kids are coming, each of them holding an UnSullen One’s hand. I make a series of lightning-fast calculations. Since I’ve been reading this particular book, I am not frightened. I am a little uneasy, but for good valid reasons. I don’t need to be afraid at this particular point.

I have my wallet and my car keys in my hand. The man steps forward, and something in the set of his shoulders warns me.

I say, “That’s close enough.” In my Mommy Voice–the one that stops people in their tracks, even adults at the mall. I don’t think he would have committed any violence had I not said that. But I do think he and his partner would have gotten aggressive when it came to begging for cash.

He stopped dead, the kids got closer, and he and his partner wandered away. It might not have been dangerous, but it could have been unpleasant, and adding my kids to the mix changed what I was willing to do in the situation.

That’s just a small story and a small incident, true. But it was amazing how I suddenly saw from another point of view while in the incident. The book had immediately proven practical and helped me save myself some unpleasantness. Granted I was slightly annoyed and anxious, but I wasn’t crippled by fear because I had faith in my predictive ability in the situation.[1]

This is why I recommend this book, and why I’m going to be buying copies for people I know. I could go on and on about the useful things in The Gift of Fear, but that would make this review almost a book in itself. So, be safe out there. And do yourself a favor: read this book.

Who knows? It could save you annoyance, or it could save your life. I call that a good bargain for a trade paperback.

[1] Of course, I also had faith in my ability to kick some ass if the guy got snitty with me or frightened my kids. But that’s an entirely different set of mama-bear reflexes.

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*cracks knuckles* We got your tech support right here, babe.

SO. Evil Ways is the second Chastain & Morris investigation, written by Justin Gustainis. Justin approached me for a quote for Black Magic Woman, the first Quincey Morris book, and I loved it. (I have also grown to adore Justin, but that’s beside the point.) I also loved Evil Ways. So, on to the review!

Evil Ways opens in Iraq, during the looting of a museum in Baghdad. A book is stolen, and right away the reader begins to suspect something is Very Very Wrong. The book contains a ritual, and a mad millionaire wants to use it to grant himself near-immortality and a cure to whatever Bad Disease he has. (My vote is cancer, but it’s not explicitly stated. Doesn’t matter, either.) The Mad Millionaire, Walter Grobius, has hired a sorcerer to help him–and the sorcerer knows his stuff.

Enter our good guys, Quincey Morris (yes, a descendant of one of Dracula’s hunters) and his pal Libby Chastain, a “white” witch.

This is one of the things I love about Justin’s work. The magic has rules, and Justin has done his research. He peppers the work with occult in-jokes–but never so many as to detract from the story. And I can tell he’s boned up (pardon the term) on Western occult theories and techniques. Not only that, but he’s thought long and hard about why the magic works the way it does in his world, and he sticks to it. I’ve read enough fantasy and urban fantasy by now to appreciate an author whose magical rules don’t change to service the plot.

There’s plenty more to appreciate about this book. For one thing, the heroes don’t know who they’re fighting for most of the book, and each group of heroes (Quincey and Libby, and Fenton and O’Connell the FBI agents, then Hannah Widmark, and the Sisterhood of white witches) has their own motivations as well as their own pieces of the puzzle. The interlocking pieces of the plot all come together in a cinematic showdown during a black-magic sabbat that was alternately hilarious and horrifying for all the right reasons. Plus, the villains have believable motivations as well–Pardee the sorcerer and Grobius the millionaire are perfectly prepared to do away with each other if and when they can, and both want this ritual done for different reasons. The villains aren’t cardboard, and I like that.

Gustainis is still a “young” writer, and there are some flaws in the book. One is a little too much exposition “tell” instead of characterization “show” at some points; especially when the academic tone rubs through. Don’t get me wrong–the academic tone works wonders when he’s starting out a chapter to set a scene. But when it comes to (in particular) Libby Chastain saying something prim instead of cursing and Quincey noticing it and realizing they’re in deep shit, the academic tone is a distraction. This is something practice and growth will solve, and Gustainis’s craft has noticeably improved between the first and second Morris & Chastain books. (He was no slouch to begin with, either.)

The ending also felt a bit abrupt, but that could have been because I was enjoying the book so much and didn’t want it to be over. There’s also a little bit of over-the-top when it comes to the bad guys–I mean, Pardee kills kittens, for Chrissake–but it works because that’s the way the world set up and it’s internally consistent, something many books that feature magic just aren’t. (Can you tell that’s a pet peeve over here at Casa Saintcrow?)

These are tiny little quibbles when compared to deft pacing, overall solid characterization (my favorite was Hannah Widmark[1], who as a secondary character stole the show and came close to taking over the whole damn book) and a number of fun pop-culture references and nods. I think I already mentioned Harry Dresden’s favorite bar and bartender showing up in this book, as well as references to a certain reporter and an awesome cameo by a guy named Frank.

These references may end up dating the book–for example, if you don’t have Netflix or don’t remember the original series, Frank is not going to be any big deal to you. HOWEVER (and this is a big however) these cameos are very adroitly handled and stand up as tertiary characterizations on their own merit, adding breadth and depth to the world Gustainis has created.

I really can’t wait for the next book in this series, and I enjoyed this one very much. Like I’ve said before, there are very few books that I am pulled into and stop “looking under the hood” of anymore, and I can rely on Justin to give me a rollicking good time without jolting me out of the story with bad craft. All in all, a thumb’s-up read, and I recommend Evil Ways for anyone who likes their occult fiction and urban fantasy smart, fun, fast, and occasionally brutal.

[1] And Hannah is so totally hot. She’s a girl after my own heart, especially her introductory scene, where she does a Lady Vengeance ALL OVER a nasty vampire. Here’s hoping Justin will give Hannah her own series…hint, hint…

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She is as happy as a pig in a wallow. And I feel really good that I can make her this happy. It’s worth every moment spent banging on a keyboard.

Now, since I’m ultra-late, here are some Mini-Reviews! I’ve been promising these for weeks, haven’t I.

* Sweetheart, Chelsea Cain. This is the second of Cain’s books dealing with detective Archie Sheridan and the serial killer he’s obsessed with, Gretchen Lowell. Cain certainly pulls no punches. I dislike Susan Ward, the gee-whillikers reporter with daddy issues who seems to be Cain’s author insertion. I’m not even that fond of Gretchen Lowell, who is just the castrating, child-eating Dark Feminine we’ve all seen before. BUT, Archie’s conflict, and the fact that he is in the position (almost always female, in our society) of having his body violated by violence and trying to deal with it, rings big chimes all over me. I keep reading these books for Archie, and I recommend them to anyone who wants a little somethin’ new and cool in a murder mystery.

* God-Shaped Hole, Tiffanie DeBartolo. Well, as an anti-paean to or even an invocation of LA this stands firmly behind Janet Fitch’s White Oleander and the entire Weetzie Bat series. The blurb on the cover hysterically promised this generation’s Love Story!, but I like it not because of the any love that might have been in it. DeBartolo has a solid grasp of characterization, even if her protag is a Mary Sue, the protag’s love interest is well-drawn in a sort of emo hipster way. I kept reading for the sex and the relationship dynamic between girl and lover, not to mention the totally effed-up father issues. All in all, an enjoyable day read.

* On The Pleasure Of Hating, William Hazlitt. Not as good as Liber Amoris, which is one of the classics of Victorian male entitlement and obsessive, stalkerish love, but still very good and worth the read. Especially since Penguin is doing the awesome reprints in beautiful more-than-mass-market editions.

* The Secret Life Of Bees, Sue Monk Kidd. This book started out awesome, and takes an unflinching view of race in the 1960s South. The first half is almost like Ellen Foster, which is one of my favorite books in the world. I get the feeling, however, that the author was hurried through the last quarter of the book. The basic story: Lily Owens is fourteen, and she’s pretty sure that she killed her mother and that her father, T. Ray, hates her. (He makes her kneel on grits for hours at a time as punishment, and though it’s never made explicit, there seems to be physical abuse as well.) When her (black) nursemaid insults three of the biggest racists in town, Lily springs her from the hospital and sets out to escape T. Ray, too. I really, really would have liked about thirty or forty more pages of this book, since it’s implicit but never really stated that T. Ray is the one who killed his wayward wife. (The way the situation is set up, you just can’t ask me to believe a four-year-old did it.) Anyway, a thumb and a half up. Leaving a reader wanting more is far from the worst thing an author can do.

* The Notebooks Of Malte Laurids Brigge, Ranier Maria Rilke. I like Duino Elegies, but a lot of Rilke’s poetry strikes me as lugubrious and heavy. (I suspect I haven’t found the right translation yet.) However, the first third of the Notebooks (which Rilke wanted to title, and should have titled, My Other Self) has some of the best descriptions of a type of sensitive, neurotic, insomniac insanity I’ve ever found. In the original German, he’s probably luminous, and must be a treat to read. However, knowing a couple of biographical details means that I don’t think much of him going off and pretend Arte was a greater mistress than his wife and kid. (It’s similar to how I feel about Christopher McCandless and his tragic death.) I won’t belabor the point, but I will say that I enjoyed Notebooks immensely, mostly for the descriptions of the poverty of Paris, very close to Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer. Which is, really, all the Miller I’ve ever enjoyed.

There you have it, mini-reviews. And now I’m exhausted, since last night was all tossing and turning and very little sweet slumber. I’m going to stare at the screen for a while until the Muse takes pity on me and drips out a few more words.

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Don’t ask. Please. Just let’s call it “the poor thing gave its all for years and finally, gave up the ghost.” While almost giving me a heart attack, I might add.

So. I did read Twilight recently, and lots of people have asked me for my opinion. I think I might best give it by giving this link–Smart Bitches Sarah, on Edward Cullen as a standard romance alpha hero. For what it’s worth, I completely agree. I feel profoundly conflicted about the alpha hero anyway, even when I write him.

Now, I did go and do a Breaking Dawn event recently for the release of the fourth book in the series, but that was because I was asked and I like doing release events (even if they’re not my book, kaff kaff). I was amazed at the energy of the mostly young and mostly female fans; but I held off reading the books because, you know, I’m writing YA too and I didn’t want to contaminate the well, so to speak.

It took Cleolinda’s blow-by-blow of Breaking Dawn (Part One of it is here) to convince me that perhaps, maybe, I should just read this and see what all the fuss is about, contamination or no. I picked up Twilight this last weekend and finished it in a couple days, in between laundry and writing and other stuff (like eating).

It was a hard slog.

Now, Meyer’s obviously onto something. Her fans are legion and very excited, and the Readers, of course, always know best. But I had a couple problems with the book, most of which spring from being an adult reading a YA book and others that spring from external influences.

Let’s take the external influences first. First, Stephanie Meyer is a Mormon*, and my feelings about that corporation are, shall we say, less than charitable. Don’t get me wrong–I would fight to the death for their right to lawfully follow the religion of their choice, and I feed all the Mormon kids who come to my door on mission. (That’s part of my own vows, thankyouverymuch.) But I had the bad fortune to read Orson Scott Card’s panegyric to Meyer (in Time magazine) right after I read his horrid little jerkwad anti-gay-marriage screed, and the two became uneasily conflated in my brain. Not to mention that I’ve been following Warren Jeffs and the other branches of the FLDS through the news for years now, and am sickened and disgusted both by the child abuse, murder, spousal abuse, and polygyny; AND by the mainstream LDS church’s refusal to both give some of its billions (raked in through tithes and things like Deseret) to help the victims of the FLDS OR to speak out loudly against the abuses perpetrated by their fanatical co-religionists. So, knowing that about the author did color my perception of the book, and I’ll admit that openly. Mea culpa; but I was willing to give it a chance.

However, (and here’s where we get to the nitty-gritty) this is not a book I’d ever recommend to my daughter.

We have a reach-and-read-it policy in our household. “If you can reach it, you can read it, and if you cannot reach it, get a stool!” I am not in the habit of censoring books for my children. If I find something objectionable, I discuss it with the child reading it. We talk about how I feel, how the kid feels about it, and the kid is free to read it as long as we’ve discussed it. That’s reasonable, and if my daughter finds Twilight on the shelf and wants to read, more power to her.

But you bet your sweet bippy I’m not going to recommend it, and if she find it and wants to read it we’re going to have a talk about how your life does NOT need to revolve around some boy. Especially some boy who stalks you, tries to control your life, and sucks blood/energy. (I find the bloodsucking to be a big metaphor, but we all knew that.)

That’s the crux of my problem with this book. Is Bella an appropriate role model for young women?

Now I know you might remark, “Would you even care if you didn’t know the author’s religious choice?” That’s a fair question, and I don’t know. I do know that the religious bent of the author, and the Mormon church’s dismal record when it comes to female rights or even emancipation (this is still a church that educates women only in order to make them better housewives, as a friend of mine so memorably remarked not too long ago), SQUICKS ME RIGHT OUT when added to Bella’s absolute inability to say no or even to enforce her own boundaries when it comes to Edward. And Edward’s violation of Bella’s boundaries added to his refusal to stop when she does tell him “no” because “he knows best”? Ugh. No thank you.

I have less of this problem when reading alpha-hero romance intended for an adult audience, and I can really see the attraction of Edward Cullen for teenage girls. It’s great to think that there is someone out there–someone handsome, brave, sparkly, “ethical”**, smart, rich, and fantastic in all senses of the word–who will find your klutziness engaging, who will be head over heels with just you as a person. Believe me, I’m thirty-two frocking years old and I still see the attraction.

But that does not mean I would ever give up pieces of myself and let someone trespass over my boundaries and take over my life ever again.

I say “ever again” because I’ve been there. I’ve been in abusive relationships and I’ve been stalked, and some (okay, most) of Edward’s behavior skeezes me out to the max. I know it’s supposed to be Romeo and Juliet-esque, and believe me I have my problems with that play too, nevermind that it was my favorite childhood Shakespeare I can still quote by the ream. (I like to think that my choice of Richard III now shows a certain maturity. Or maybe not. *snerk*) What really skeezes me is that Bella thinks Edward’s behavior is appropriate and downright fuzzy romantic, and the author placed her parents in the book as nonentities. The book could just as easily be titled “Edward Saves Bella From Absent Father And Flighty Mother, Ushering Her Into Teh Perfekt Nuklear Fam, In Which It Is Okay To Suck Blood Because Our Wimmins Are In Their Place And Everyone Is Sporty/Pretty And Camps A Lot.”

Which, when added to the image of a perfect family noised about by the Mormon church, just sends me into twitching spasms. The fact that I know where the series ends up–with a teen marriage and pregnancy, Bella not going to college because she “wants to be with Edward so much” etc., turns me RIGHT OFF.

This begs the question of whether or not I think some other aimed-at-teen-girl series are appropriate role models for young women. Like, say, Gossip Girls or even the American Girls series (on the younger end). I’m not speaking to those because the phenomena isn’t as huge and widespread. The Twilight thing is, to me, a perfect storm. I cannot separate the fame of the series from my feelings about the author or from my feelings about the book, and knowing that the series ends up with the protagonist getting hitched and knocked up instead of going to college because of a hormonal glow of first love just makes me cringe.

Edward’s behavior in book one–he even STAYS THE WHOLE NIGHT IN HER ROOM when her dad doesn’t know about it–and Meyer’s subtle comment on the parenting styles of Bella’s mum and dad just make me so uncomfortable. And opening up the book with a heavy-handed quote from Genesis about the Tree of Knowledge? Man, I was probably lost the moment I read that, to be absolutely honest.

I do know I’m not going to be buying/reading the rest of the series unless my daughter finds the first one on her own, reads it, and falls utterly in love. Then I’m going to have to, and I’m going to have to discuss them with my little girl. Which will be all flavors of fun for her, I’m sure. I can just see her now. “Mom, it’s a book. I know this isn’t real. It’s just fun to read. Sheesh!”

Which is probably the best reaction she could have.

I wish Ms. Meyer all the best–publishing being what it is, we will probably cross paths sometime in the future, and she seems like a cool person. She’s made a lot of Readers very happy, and that’s awesome. I respect the hell out of that, and will probably go see the Twilight movie when it comes out. I suspect I will be the median age in the audience, too, given the size of the adult Twilight fanbase. I’m even going to go so far as to say I read something way outside my comfort level, and I’m glad about that. Not only am I glad, but I’m happy to see the books being discussed and analyzed by people like the SBs. This just underscores the power of fiction to bring people to the table and give them a chance to talk about all sorts of things–gender roles, religion, equal rights, social expectations–without getting into a war over it.

Or at least, let’s hope. Bear me out here by being decent to each other in the comments section, okay?

* I am fully aware my own religious preferences, stated openly, have driven some Readers away too. That’s a chance one takes with being a public personality, and a choice I made when I sold my first books dealing with the material I deal with. ‘Nuff said.
** Much is made of the Cullens’ ethics, as in not hunting humans. When conflated with Edward’s controlling behavior toward Bella, the cognitive dissonance is jarring.

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Currently I’m reading a lot of Cormac McCarthy. I’ve finished off All The Pretty Horses (on the train from San Diego), No Country For Old Men (a while ago), Blood Meridian (which got me started on the McCarthy kick), and Child of God. I’m currently working on Outer Dark and The Orchard Keeper; planning on the next two in the Border Trilogy after a while.

I also finished Duras’s The Little Horses of Tarquinia on the train to San Diego, and an annotated Jane Eyre. I took a whack at Crime Scene Chemistry For The Armchair Sleuth, which is very well written and which I eventually gave to the Chemist, my middle sister. I was also working on a huge honking new history of Nazi Germany, mostly because of my interest in the Eastern Front of both world wars. Finished that and a couple other works on the Soviet army in WWII (thank you, DreamLabyrinth!) I’ve started on a secondary interest–the Winter War between Finland and the Soviet Union.

I don’t know what I’ll be attempting next, unless it’s finishing the next Kismet book. Which I’m rather successfully avoiding working on a sex scene for. *sigh* Ah, the life of a writer.

So, off I go. I’m listening to Zimmer and Howard’s soundtrack for The Dark Knight, which is atmospheric and creepy for the next Jill book.

I know what the problem is: I’ve been in those relationships where the edge of physical violence and sexual attraction is always there. It’s a fine edge, a cutting edge, and you need to be careful where you hold it. Putting it on paper is, well, thought-provoking. And dangerous.

So I’ve put it off long enough. A civil adieu to you, dear Reader.

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But that’s another story. Let’s start with Linda Ronstadt. I’m a big fan since childhood, of her and Carly Simon.

My mum listened to a LOT of Ronstadt, and the chorus to this song is kind of a family refrain.

No, I didn’t have a broken heart this weekend. But I did meet a few people who had this song running through my head all Sunday. And YouTube came through for me in a big way with a mashup, too. Which, of course, led me to another Linda Ronstadt favorite.

This song reminds me of a particular house we lived in, out in the sticks. A long driveway, three-quarters of an acre, and my mother playing this song after fights that ended with slamming doors and gunning engines. Broken glass, the smell of leaves in autumn, and driving to the mall.

Speaking of malls, here’s an old one that reminds me of mall-crawling. It was not quite a classic but a quirky choice nonetheless by the time the 90s rolled around.

Before we leave the 80s, mention has to be made of Murray Head. Do you remember this playing during that Jean-Claude Van Damme movie? I do. Lord, I do.

I get my kicks ABOVE the waistline, sunshine! (I started using “sunshine” as a term of endearment in junior high and grew out of it, except in my fiction. Where it shows up in the weirdest places.

No, wait. I’m not ready to let go of the 80s yet. How about this? They played Taco all the time at that one dance club, during 80s night. We had a whole production number worked out, remember?

And of course, we’d all yell “PUHHIN ON DA RIIIIHHHH!” while doing Frankenstein’s Monster. It got to where the DJ would stop the music and do crowd-response calls.

Speaking of that dance club, this was “our” song. At least, it was “your” song and I didn’t mind it. But I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I.

As for the nineties, well, there was the Lightning Seeds when I started high school. Even now it reminds me of stealing the tape, eventually returning it when I could sing every word, and the first jolt of a love affair when I was still too young to see sharks under the water.

Remember when Plant and Page got back together? That was the first nosebleed I ever got at a concert. They didn’t play this, but I was all right anyway. I’d gotten rid of the one boyfriend who thought I was a punching bag, and I really thought I was going to make it somewhere else.

Then he showed back up again, and the downward spiral started. I still get shivers when I hear this.

Yeah. Shivers, right on target. He was a nice boy, just too quick with his fists.

And then there was that other boy, the one that didn’t understand what a bruised heart meant, who kept asking me who was hurting me.

Yeah. Then there was leaving home. I remember that. Crying while I drove, throwing myself out at the world and expecting no net to catch me. But if I could survive home, the real world would be not a huge problem.

Last but not least, thank you, Tom Petty. You saved my life. And later, while I was writing? I thanked you in the only way I knew how, by making this Danny Valentine’s song. Well, actually, she dug up this song and insisted, and I gave in. Because, hey baby, there ain’t no easy way out, and I learned that when I was very very young.

Yeah. Sometimes music does save you. Funny how a few bars of melody can remind you-sink you whole, actually–into memory and sensation. Like this. I remember this album literally shining light on my entire life the first time I listened to it.

I was feeling kind of bad this morning, but the tunes have stepped in. It’s going to be okay. And baby, if it isn’t okay, as Deangelo often said to me, the Muppets will make it okay.

Well, okay. That wasn’t exactly what he said. But the principle remains. The Muppets will certainly make it okay.

Over and out, kiddos. But not before Shakespeare gets poleaxed by Muppets. Hey, we’ve got to find our joy where we can. If nothing else, life has taught me that. And also about clean knickers.

I’m not sure WHAT life has taught me about clean knickers, but I’m sure it’s SOMETHING.

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Mondays aren’t bad days. They’re just changeful, like the moon they’re named for. Of course, change is the way you know you’re still breathing, and breathing is good.

Breathing is very, very good.

It was over ninety degrees (to the tune of 100 on Saturday) this past weekend, and sticky-sultry-hot. I live up here in the grand Pacific Northwest because the weather doesn’t often make me want to peel off my skin and sit around in my bones, like in that Shel Silverstein poem. But we did have thunder yesterday evening. Ever since we lived for a little while in Wyoming I’ve loved thunderstorms.

So when the heat broke late last night it felt like a blessing, and it’s going to be a warm but not unlivable day today.

Look at that, I’ve just chatted about the weather. How banal can I get? Let’s go a little deeper.

This weekend I finished Absolute War by Chris Bellamy, a study of Soviet Russia in WWII. And I also finished Vircondelet’s Duras, a bio of Marguerite Duras, one of my favorite authors.

I like Duras’s work, for some ungodly reason. I don’t know why. Everyone always reads The Lover first, because of the movie, but I actually read Summer Rain back when I was living up in Seattle and working for yet another bookstore. After that I started reading every Duras I could get my hands on. The Sailor From Gibraltar and The Ravishing of Lol Stein are also perennial favorites. But I rarely recommend her to people for a number of reasons.

One is because of the translation. She wrote in French, and any time you get a translation of ANYTHING it’s hit or miss. (Like the *flinch* Fagles translation of the Odyssey. I really, really prefer the Fitzgerald.) For some languages, like French, translations are easier for me to read because I can make a shoddy guess at the turn of phrase the writer is originally going for. On others…well, I’m at the mercy of the translator in a way I don’t exactly enjoy as a reader.

Another reason I don’t recommend Duras to people is because she feels so excruciatingly personal to me. There’s a certain hypersensitive, doomed fraught-ness (that’s not even a word, but you get the idea) running through her work I can, if not identify with, then at least imagine. For some reason she’s very successful at putting me in her character’s shoes, even over a language barrier.

The last reason is because her books deal with a sort of interior motion a lot of American readers don’t traditionally like. They break a lot of fictional “rules” in ways the vast majority of the reading public I’ve waited on and recommended to (as a bookstore employee) just don’t enjoy or understand. It’s like my taste for peanut butter curry, or peanut butter and dill pickles. I know there are other people who enjoy this sort of thing, but it’s not something I can recommend without knowing you.

Vircondelet’s bio of her was…interesting. I much prefer Adler’s, but I understand that Vircondelet was trying to take a bath in the experience of this woman, this author. I can respect that. It was a bit of a slog in places, just because I don’t like that style of biography. But all in all, well done.

Bellamy’s book was incredibly enjoyable. No, it’s never enjoyable to read about war, but when you’ve read about a subject like the Eastern Front in either World War, where there’s not a terrible lot of archival sources for one side available to researchers, you get a kind of static picture of the whole thing. You know pieces are missing. But then, when someone gets access to the closed archives (as Bellamy did before Putin re-closed them, plus ca change…) and has a fair degree of talent for writing coherent, clear text…Well. Things become very interesting, and the picture becomes dynamic. One begins to see the interplay of moving forces instead of just a picture of rubble.

So it’s been a good book week, all things considered. Next I have a couple things I have to read for possible cover quotes, which is an enjoyable part of an author’s job. I’m always stunned to be asked for cover quotes. I rarely think anyone will care about my opinion of such-and-such.

Which partly accounts for the weird tone of my blog some days, dear Reader. Part of writing daily in this space is a certain feeling of shouting into the wind, in a good way. It feels very intimate, as if I’m writing this just for myself. The tension between that and the fact that it’s public space and there are boundaries between it and my private life, is a source of creative fuel some days.

Other days I just ramble on about nothing, and close with a civil adieu. Which is, I suspect, what this Monday post has turned out to be.

So. Happy Monday, dear Reader. May it be breathable. Because, you know, the alternative really doesn’t bear thinking about.

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