Slogging away

I'm finding it hard to lift my head at times. I work on my completed memoir from time to time, desperately unhappy with editing attempts.

Other stuff intrudes like daily life tasks and my energy is absent. I do what I can. I started to throw out one item a day - usually into my recycling charity pile unless it's gone past its lifespan completely and lies sobbing in a corner somewhere. I exaggerate. But you know. I have a hard time throwing out stuff and am drowning in old photos, old books, detritus of an old life that no one else will care about. I promised family I would get a negative reader, but WORK. I promised myself ten minutes a day shredding masses of old papers, but WORK. And honestly? Digitized stuff? Does anyone look at it if I do it?

Speaking of the memoir, it is about a time I thought I'd never share with anyone. Ever. But it's haunting me. I need to get it to unhaunt by putting it out there.

And as I say at my writing workshops - most of our stories die within us. Repeat after me: get it out there.

Teacher, listen to yourself. It's time to just sit for at least an hour a day and think about it and restructure sentences and the unfolding of it all. 

Just finished:

This is about the travelling people of island, rarely written about. A little too mythical for my liking. A big book with tiny print too.

Reading:

I'm enjoying every single page. What a delight.

Little Things/Big Things

Bits and pieces take on a life of their own as they age. Everything seems to take forever. Main focus seems to be meals, how to make them or how to pick them up somewhere else or have them delivered. I've suggested a workshop on cooking for singles here in a series of workshops my committee is putting on - well received I should add. Mindfulness, hearing, etc.

Other than that I fill a wee gratitude list every day, the fact I can still drive to wherever I choose - even though choices are limited. Gone are the days I'd drive across the island to the ferry, hop on board with my trusty dog and spend overnight on it and then drive off at the other end in mainland Canada.

I remember writing an article for a now defunct magazine years ago of never being aware when we do something for the last time, though sometimes we are. I remember dropping off my daughter at school, she was around 9, and thinking, that's the last time she'll kiss me in front of her friends outside the school. And sure enough, it was. I never thought my last marathon would be my last, or my last long ferry would be my last. Or the last time I hugged my granny or my mum or my brother.

I believe if we were more aware of this each time something precious and dear happens it would be far more meaningful.

Just the ramblings of an old geezer facing her own mortality square in the face.

My love of books continues:

Two really good reads:

Blurt 2

 Bits and pieces as I manage, or try to,  the sporadia of my life.

Tax season, though much, much reduced from days gone by in its volume, is upon me. But so far managed well. There now I've jinxed it.

I have my season of writing workshops starting on Saturday for which I am completely unprepared.

I semi-reluctantly signed up (under pressure from the board et al) for the Tenants' Committee here and now find I had the most votes even though I don't get involved, AT ALL, in the frenzy of activities here such as Bingo Night, Soup Day, Darts Night and Koffee Klatch Wednesdays and Garden Beds (which are glorious as we have magnificent gardens). So now what do I do? 

A few pics.

I really like this photo of my bathroom mirror capturing some of the art on my bathroom wall.

Loved my latest read, the pacing, the tension and the complex characters.

I can't praise this series enough. Most of it I lived through but the fresh perspective on everything (Bay of Pigs being one example) is enlightening. I highly recommend.

Christmas Eve

I am mindful of those who stand apart from all the celebratory jollies. I know far too many who have lost beloveds this past year or have other struggles and I know how it feels having gone through a few sad Christmases myself.

A mixed bag here as the silly season gets under way. I hear from many scattered friends and acquaintances at this time. Jacquie Lawson cards. poems from fellow tenants in my building slipped under my door, long emails from those abroad, cards, a book from my sister which has a particular resonance, a knock on the door from a friend bearing a large bag of assorted gifts which will await an opening on Christmas Day.

I get far more out of giving gifts than receiving them. I was lucky in that a friend, a very talented artist, did some delightful oil paintings this past year and I believe in supporting the arts and then endowing members of my family with her talent. I forgot to take pics before I wrapped them but hope to do so once they open them.

My seasonal section in my home, which are normally my knitting shelves:

It might all look very sloppy to you but I always buy a large selection of tea towels before Christmas and wrap gifts in them. Cuts back on waste and who can't use a luscious new tea towel? We mainly exchange books as we are all mad readers. We celebrate Jokabokaflod

You may wonder what this item below is. I can assure you it's made all the difference to my life.

It's a set of (USB rechargeable) lights that I wear around my neck when in poorly lit places so I can either knit or read. Recently I was waiting in the gym area beside the laundry room which has lighting in all the wrong places and I was able to sit and knit to my heart's content. I am so in love with this incredible invention I bought 3 more for relatives and a friend. 3 lighting intensities too. 

I worked on this with the benefit of this lighting, I have one now complete and started another. Next I'll be knitting socks while waiting for the machines.

Small wee joys. Who can beat them?

And with that, I wish you all small wee joys. The big ones are elusive. Collect the small ones.

Frivolity

 A minor impatient rebellion by a few of my writers in my writing workshop yesterday. Demands to see their finished pieces published already. I took the requisite 24 hours before responding as my initial internal reactive one would have curled the hair on anyone's head. 

So I managed the reasonable, reasoned one a few minutes ago. Still calling them idiots but couched very prettily in one of those passive aggressive apologies. "I thought I had taken the time to explain the process in detail, I am so sorry if that wasn't the case."  (Note to readers: you see how imperfect I am.)

I read the rag of our local newspaper (on line) today, I don't do it often as it makes me grit my teeth. But I idly looked at my horoscope and it said:

So yes on the horoscope theme, I just finished "A Spool of Blue Thread" which was book club reading for this month. I see it has mixed reviews. I love Anne Tyler so admit to a bias. I would give it 5/5. It reads with extraordinary intimacy into a family. The secrets, the unspoken, the unresolved.

I've also nearly finished all the episodes of Season 5 of The Crown which, much like Downtown Abbey, one can't quite take seriously. The cars and frocks and sumptuous dinners and palatial residences and backbiting can't be beaten for their sheer entertainment value and re-creation. It must have cost a fortune to produce.

Climbing out of the Pit

 

I'm sharing suggestions that have helped me in the past week of despair.

Daughter had read a nugget somewhere and shared it with me.

Every morning before contemplating the day, take a look around me and focus on how hard it would be to live without something. Not for long. Just enough to recognize its loss if it happened.

So I've been doing this and am astonished at all I take for granted in my life and don't really see. Gratitude lists are grand but less meaningful when one lumps stuff together.

I mentioned this to a friend I met with during the week as she had been full of angst and depression herself. So we agreed to share our item of acknowledgement in text first thing in the morning before the day got a hold of us.

My first day was independent living, thinking of my dear friend Lana in her assisted living life. I looked around my apartment and felt this rush of appreciation.

My second day was books. I am a voracious reader and would find it just about impossible to live without them. 

My third day was my doctor, who has been an incredible support in the past two years when I needed medical attention and care the most. He goes beyond the call of care and concern. He has a gift of intuition, endless time, and humour. For instance - I have shaky underperforming kidneys and yesterday, without prompting, he assured me yet again that I would not need dialysis in my lifetime as age, for once, was in my favour. So I said to him my obit should read - "it was not her kidneys that killed her?" And we laughed. I don't know what I'd do without him.

So there you have it. A tiny tool that seems to work for navigating these days of worry and stress and helplessness and anxiety. And a looming war as the icing on the cake.

Thank you all for the wonderful words of support and kinship on my last post. I savoured every single comment many times.  

No longer alone.

Blogjam

Sunrise from my window a few mornings ago, the deep crimson red was breathtaking and the phone-photo doesn't quite capture it. That's an owl (my spirit animal) pendant - a gift - on the window. It captures the light and moves a rainbow across my floor every day when the sun shines.

We soldier on. In spite of. Because of.

Or do we? I confess to being absolutely knackered by the latest cases of Covid with one case of Omicron here, contained, but hey. Anybody else feeling a sense of gloom and defeat?

I mean we can sway in the wind from time to time and shrug and carry on and then at others feel like crawling into bed and staying there as The Plague, in all its iterations, takes over the planet and thumbs its nose at us. Even those of us fairly safe with an abundance of caution and the health experts taking control of protocols and not the politicians. Like here in my province, Newfoundland. 

It's not good news out of Ireland and the UK and Ontario, Canada, et al. I haven't checked the US lately, I'm hoping you guys are OK with the New Man in charge. Australia has this abundance of caution thing going as well.

Meanwhile in my country of birth, the prime minister has admitted to being "worried" as Omicron gallops through his country with no end in sight. And old Boris in the UK is folding, it looks like.

So we all agreed yesterday, the writing workshop keeps us going like never before and all the writing is remarkable. It's a great way of losing one's self, immersing in an imaginary plague-free world.

I watched For Life which was on Netflix here. Quite good.

I watched some of the Irish series  Single Handed not bad so far. On Amazon Prime here.  Great views of the old sod and seascapes. For those of you not Irish, turn on CC. The accents come flying at you quickly.

Reading Anxious People (Fredrik Backman) who wrote A Man Called Ove which I loved. It's very unusual. And I'll reserve my review until finished.

And a PS to the Etc

 Dear Joared and DKZ

Your blogs kick me out after I comment which is very frustrating. Can't figure out why this is so. Can you figure it out? Other blogs do not do this, much to my relief as I could become quite paranoid.

I've been tossing books lately with a DNF* note in my book journal. I resent the time I spend on them before this act as I could have been reading a good book. Know what I mean?

I'm into fiction in a big way. I like the escapism provided by a good author. Good in my estimation, maybe not in yours.

I persist sometimes when the books are both gifts and best sellers as these last two were.

But finally I just threw in the towel on both and picked up my emergency Michael Connolly who never lets me down when Bosch is involved. And PS I can't abide the actor portraying him in the Bosch series on Prime.

I will update my 2021 Books Read Page soonest as I have enjoyed some smashing reads this year.

And I will mention now, albeit with connection to reading, that my right eye, one day after the hospital procedures has gone semi-blind. A grey fog has descended. What next, I think, sitting on my pity pot. I have an appointment with my eye guy first thing Tuesday and we'll take it from there. 

But at least the left eye is behaving itself. And there have been no alarming calls after two biopsies on last Tuesday.

And, I always think, and I pass this on, who would trade places with me right now? So many worse off, so many in desperation and pain. So many, and I know one dear one, who are facing their own mortality.

*Did Not Finish.

Turning a Nasty Corner

 So here. On this so far so safe island, Covid 19 is now out of control in the schools and polling booths. Our premier called an election in the midst of a pandemic. With no votes by mail or on line. I won't post links but you get the picture.

Mask wearing was not enforced in schools, shame on the educators involved and sports meets were just about normal.

Complacency ruled. We were so safe. I saw that in my own building. Darts, coffee mornings, card games, laundry rooms, who needs masks? You're over-reacting WWW! These are seniors who regularly babysat grandchildren and had big family gatherings on the weekends. Asking about their bubbles was to receive derisive laughter. 

So here we are now. Community spread and imminent lockdown coming up.

Meancwhile, the hospital called me for a back X-ray on my doctor's orders (at least he's working for me!) and both the nurse and I laughed and laughed. As if. 

So on the phone with my sister today she was telling me (she's in Ireland) that some seniors there are opting out of ventilator treatement and choosing death instead. That gave me shivers.

Meanwhile niece's family (she, husband and 5 kids) have all been tested yesterday on a drive thru and so far so good.

By way of light relief I offer you a picutre of my mountain of books which pleases me no end.

And the gang on the windowsill. The middle one is thyme, one of my favourite herbs, which I have never, in all my born years, grown successfully before.

Sunday-ish Smatterings

I ran into an old friend after I gave a talk last night. He would call me a friend, I know that. And I used to call him a friend until I realized that it was all fairly one-sided. And I also realized that most women I know (myself included) fill in those awkward gaps with a few of our male friends. It's hard to explain this in writing but I'll try. I remember sharing with this guy a few years back about a terrible time I was having with far too many losses in my life and he never responded but immediately plunged into a new job or some-such that his son-in-law now had. And I thought whoa Nelly, off the share list with this guy as I felt immediately worse, as if he didn't give a flying.

So as I was saying I ran into him. And since I saw him last, about a year ago, I have changed. I now ride on a stick (George, my walking cane). I mean if the situation were reversed I would immediately ask him how things were, what's with the stick? But him? No, he just looked at me and gave me a hug and waited for me to ask him how he was, and I didn't and he didn't and then he walked away, as I didn't bail him out of the conversational well. It was most interesting. I'm going to do that again with others who only broadcast at me and never, ever ask how I am or show concern, etc., but launch into some kind of monologue after I ask how they are. Life's too short to put up with self-centredness like this or narcissism or whatever we call it.

In the mail:

A postcard of Adelaide from a blogmate with her own vignettes on the back.

A postcard from my 18 year old friend, now on full scholarship in Halifax (she's brilliant)

and here's a taste:
About 145 light-years in diameter, M13 is composed of several hundred thousand stars, the brightest of which is a red giant, the variable star V11, with an apparent visual magnitude of 11.95. M13 is 22,200-25,000 light-years away from Earth.
If you'd like more read all about it here.

And last but not least, I was hunting for a copy of this book for a long time and it finally arrived from Australia a few days ago. It was written by one of my high school teachers, the first nun in Ireland to gain a PhD. We're talking the fifties here folks.

Dis and Dat

I updated my book list for those interested - and I am gratified some of you enjoy it.
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As to Canadian Netflix, it seems to have run out of steam. Deliberately, I don's subscribe to any other streaming service in case it would get in the way of my real life. So I decided to embrace my local library yet again and I'm finding all sorts of goodies which only take up temporary space in my abode. For instance, I just received "Brideshead Revisited" which I haven't seen in a dog's age and am looking forward to revisiting (ha). This is the 1981 version which I remember enjoying. I didn't see the remake and have no desire to.
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And yay Ireland on the referendum and all who sailed in to cast votes from everywhere around the planet. I haven't been so emotionally swept up in a vote in a long, long time. Remembering all who suffered and died because of the barbaric nature of the Eighth Amendment to the Constitution of Ireland.


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I had one of those "real" dreams last night. Missing Daughter had returned to the fold. Engineered by First Daughter. All terribly complicated but I was holding her and she was sobbing her heart out and wouldn't let me go. I woke up smiling and not crying which surprised me. But I carried a little oomph of hope. I have a major milestone birthday coming up and maybe this is playing some part in this. But I do know about expectations being folly. So no fatted calf or parades in anticipation.
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In the past week, I banjaxed my left arm from the fingertips to the shoulder. The pain was brutal and I needed a brace. This happens periodically and we can't seem to source the cause. It feels like a repetitive sprain injury but to cover such a vast area? I've checked seating, desk height, etc. But I'm baffled. A few months ago when it happened I went for all sorts of tests and nothing was found.

A Fresh Eye

For this reader, it is sometimes important to re-read books that I originally read forty years ago. That is the case with my current read: "Death Comes for the Archbishop" by Willa Cather, written in 1926.

It basically tells the story of two Catholic priests converting the "natives" and "aboriginals" to Catholicism in New Mexico and Texas in the 1850s. The descriptions of landscape and culture are superb.

But it is the recounting of the white man's ways that take my breath away, particularly in the light of today where we are somewhat more aware of what we do and the evidence of our never-ending destruction of land, sea and water is far more deleterious than it ever was back then.

"...it was the white man's way to assert himself in any landscape, to change it, make it over a little (at least to leave some mark or memorial of his sojourn), it was the Indian's way to pass through a country without disturbing anything; to pass and leave no trace, like fish through water, or birds through the air."

Also, our sense of "decoration" compare unfavourably to aboriginals wherein they contented themselves with decorating only their bodies:

"....upon their blankets and belts and ceremonial robes they lavished this skill and pains. But their conception of decoration did not extend to the landscape. They seemed to have none of the European's desire to 'master' nature to arrange and re-create. They spent their ingenuity in the other direction; in accommodating themselves to the scene in which they found themselves. This was not so much from indolence, the Bishop thought, as from an inherited caution and respect."

I wish I had taken notes back then on books I read as I've done for the last five-six years. But again, with two small children and a full time job, I'm consistently amazed at how much I did read back then.

A journey of self-education, never regretted.

30 Days - Day 15

A friend lent me the DVD of "Unbroken" to watch. That's the movie Angelina Jolie directed. I was full of high expectations as Friend had loved it and movies directed by women are far too rare on the ground.

I was disappointed. Flat as a pancake is about the kindest thing I can say about it. Three men spending 48 days at sea on a raft (looking quite Chippendaleish - unfortunately for truism)and multiple instances of savagery inflicted at a Japanese POW camp do not make for riveting watching.

The cinematography, however was fabulous. A true story rendered with no character development and cut short when the most interesting part of Zamporini's life was just beginning.

Along with this, I was reading JK Rowling's "The Cuckoo's Calling" (written under a pseudonym) - this was no Harry Potter, 456 page of absolutely cardboard characters, sprinkled with BIG adjectives and a plot that had more holes than the biggest colander I've seen. I should have dropped it but you know that train wreck thing? I kept staring in disbelief that a billionaire author could write something so appalling.

I prefer my life when I can weigh a good book against a rotten movie and vice versa.

Not two fails in each genre in the same swathe of time.

But oh, the knitting is going well. And so is the mystery dinner theatre I'm writing. And the writers' workshop series.

Into each life a few duds fall along with the roses.

30 Days - Day 5

Some days I feel like a kid. An excited little kid. I started a town library. Yes, I did!

And today we were shelving books and chatting and laughing and expanding on ideas - let's have a children's section - we have many children shipping in for the summer. And we have a formidable movie section now. And along with that we are putting the town on line and digitizing the records. And we plan some readings by authors, and oh lord! maybe a book-club, too.

So I want to clap my hands and jump gleefully around and repeat "And next...?"

And a friend dropped off some moose for me. A nice roast. I so love moose.

And I socialized myself tonight and went and played community cards and we all talked gardening and how lovely April is, the light is extraordinary on the bay, and we all wanted to kick winter far out and down the road and some of us bragged we ran around - for five minutes like - in a tee shirt on the beach this afternoon. We didn't compare goose-bumps. But oh, this honeyed air pouring into the old lungs. A right tonic so it is.

Tonight it rains and that's wonderful and freshening. And not white and freezing.

And the calendar is getting really full with workshops and revitalization of theatre projects and the odd few tax returns I prepare, mainly pro-bono.

I'm really truly finally crawling out from under the bus.

Blending Reality and Fiction.

I read. I read a lot. I always have. I gain so much from reading. Insight into the lives of others. Insight into the minds of writers. Massive escapism. Understanding. Being understood.

Some have it that to be a good writer one needs to be a voracious reader. My jury is out on that one. I would like to hear the other side of that argument. As a voracious reader and voracious writer I link the two processes. But how I would I know? I've always read. Since I was four, thank you Daddy.

In mid-July I finished a large tome: "The Novel" by James Michener.

And he put into words something I'd been mulling about for a while.

P4:

As so often happens with writers, my imaginary terrain had become more real to me than the physical one that surrounded me.

I have exactly that feeling with one of my unpublished (but complete) books. When I am back in the town in Ireland I write about (but disguise)I see my own imaginary characters on the roads and in the houses and churches.

I know these people.

They walk with me.

Mortifying Metaphors.

I finished this book. Yeah, I had quoted it in a blog post. But it was not in the way of a recommendation for any of you readers out there.

For the book was a slog. Normally, I shove such books aside. Donate them half-read to the thrift shop. I don't know why I kept going. It was 562 pages of my life I'll never get back.

One of the reasons was to see how many appalling metaphors the author could cram into those 562 pages. Did I mention there were 562 pages? Oh yeah, sorry, three times now.

Samples, just a few out of hundreds ~

When a fellow's hair lifts off his forehead:

"It settled back to his temples like roosting doves."

On a small sound from someone:

"Like the wheeze in the chest of an asthmatic, or the faint whimper of a small creature dying at the side of the road."

"The inquiry team were starting to dissipate their energies fruitlessly, like men urinating into a strong wind."

Reflecting on a picture of a six year old girl:

"Fair hair cut raggedly across her forehead and a selection of teeth and gaps like a half-demolished wall."

"Tears crawled over his skin, like tiny slugs, slow and painful."

Apart from these, there were also times when metaphors were needed as in two sets of parents with murdered daughters not reacting to the loss and horror. At all. In fact, one couple doesn't bother to come back from their vacation. A face etched in grief at the death, a small sob over the casket? Not at all. No funerals even mentioned.

And the resolution at the end was so forced along with the perpetrator being signalled from Page 1 or 2.

Oh, boy. Someone should have told Mr. Booth that appalling metaphors takes a reader right out of the story as she contemplates those slug-like tears and teeth like a wall or a pile of men urinating into the wind, while her mind frets over the conundrum of that chilly pair of non-grieving parents.

The Books of 2013

Well, I beat the 78 record of The Books of 2012 with 79 total books read in 2013. My ambition years ago was to read 100 books in a year. Not even close. I'm getting more fussy as I age. I toss far, far quicker than I used to if a book is not to my taste or interest or just badly written.

The short list of the very best were:

Austerlitz - W.G. Sebald
The Two Minute Rule - Robert Crais
Bel Canto - Ann Pritchett
A Virtuous Woman - Kaye Gibbons - I read it again, I love it so.
The Light Between Oceans - M.L. Stedman
The Book of Ruth - Jane Hamilton
Fidelity - Michael Redhill
Saints & Sinners - Edna O'Brien
Three Junes - Julia Glass
Home from the Vinyl Cafe - Stuart McLean
Amy & Isabelle - Elizabeth Strout
We need to talk about Kevin - Lionel Shriver
Mr. Sandman - Barbara Gowdy
The Hidden Mountain - Gabrielle Roy
Swamp Angel - Ethel Wilson
Friendship,Hateship, Loveship, Courtship,Marriage - Alice Munroe - again for Book Club and honouring her Nobel.
Olive Kitteridge - Elizabeth Strout

I am so pleased to see that many are Canadian. This was unintentional. Most are also female writers. Also unintentional. I read the choices of my book club, recommendations of others, and family-friends gifts/loans.
The best, by far, was "The Hidden Mountain" by Gabrielle Roy. Lyrical and beautiful. I would read again. And again. And anyone to whom I've recommended it are astounded by its beauty. Summary: 16 out of 79 were superb. Not a bad ratio.

Here is the complete list:

(1)Two Girls From The Bay - Helen Best-Colgan* Lecturing/reminding the reader,awful editing. Sad, sad story deserved much better.
(2)Martin Sloane - Michael Redhill****
(3)On the Natural History of Destruction - W.G. Sebald****
(4)What we all long for - Dionne Brand****
(5)Summer of Hate - Chris Kraus****
(6)Brick Lane - Monica Ali(gift)***1/2 too long
(7) (8)An Intimate History of Humanity
(9)Sweet Tooth - Ian McEwan**Huge construct with no payoff
(10)Hit Parade - Lawrence Block - dropped, pathetic 0
(11)Charade - Sandra Brown oddly compelling **
(12)The Great Fire - Shirley Hazzard****
(13)The Two Minute Rule - Robert Crais*****Brilliant
(14)Saint Maybe - Anne Tyler****
(15)The Reconstruction - Claudia Casper**
(16)Bel Canto - Ann Pritchett*****Brilliant
(17)A Virtuous Woman - Kaye Gibbons***** (2nd Reading loved it both times)
(18)Left Bank - Kate Muir***
(19)The Light Between Oceans - M.L. Stedman{BC}*****
(20)The Monkey's Raincoast - Robert Crais*Oh Bobby what happened to you? I'm now officially offya.
(21)The Book of Ruth - Jane Hamilton*****Extraordinary
(22)A Pale View of the Hills - Kazuo Ishiguro***lovely but unfinished?
(23)The Secret Stones - Dee Holmes**
(24)Vertigo - W.G. Sebald
(25)I, Fatty - Jerry Stahl***(fascinating story of the origins of Hollywood and the movies)
(26)No Fixed Address - Aritha van Herk(thanks Daughter)Marvellous****
(27)Fidelity - Michael Redhill*****
(28)The Time In Between - David Bergen**
(29)The Cat's Table - Michael Ondaatje***{BC}
(30)Saints & Sinners - Edna O'Brien*****
(31)Quench the Lamp - Alice Taylor****wonderful memoir of a Cork childhood
(32)Home from the Vinyl Cafe - Stuart McLean*****laugh out loud funny
(33)Three Junes - Julia Glass*****fabulous,complex{BC}
(34)Amy & Isabelle - Elizabeth Strout*****Stunning
(35)Bad Dirt - Annie Proulx
(36)We need to talk about Kevin - Lionel Shriver*****riveting, appalling
(37)The Good Mother - Sue Miller(did I read this back in the day?)**never got to care for this character, selfish almost narcissistic
(38)The Red Room - Nicci French****excellent for its genre
(39)Sweetwater Creek - Anne Rivers Siddons**all filler no meat
(40)The Chosen One - Carol Lynch Williams****made me cry
(41)Where She Has Gone - Nino Ricci****
(42)Fear the Worst - Linwood Barclay**formulaic
(43)A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again - David Foster Wallace***
(44)The Tipping Point - Malcolm Gladwell***
(45)The Badger Riot - J.R. Ricketts****(a period in NL history beautifully captured)
(46)The Summons - John Grisham*(unread book supply needs massive transfusion)
(47)The Stories of Eva Luna - Isabel Allende
(48)Girls Like Us - Sheila Weller****
(49)Reconstructing Amelia - Kimberly McCreight**** (unputdownable)
(50)The Salt Road - Jane Johnson
(51)The Bluest Eye - Toni Morrison{BC}***(not as impressed as most)
(52)The Redeemer - Jo Nesbo 0 - who recommended him? Scenes and characters jumping around even on the one page. Could not finish. Awful
(53)Priest - Ken Bruen****
(54)Mother - Linda Ann Rentschler
(55)Mr. Sandman - Barbara Gowdy, what a wonderful read! Thanks Daughter!*****
(56)Six Metres of Pavement - Farzana Doctor disappointing structure, poor editing**
(57)Bring up the Bodies - Hilary Mantel - thanks, bro. Don't understand The Booker or the fuss**
(58)The Magdalen Martyrs - Ken Bruen - can't get enough of this author****
(59)The Age of Hope - David Bergen*** {BC}
(60)A Casual Vacancy - J.K. Rowling - thank you Grandgirl!503 pages!****
(61)A Door in the River - Inger Ash Wolfe**Disappointing 3rd book in a series.
(62)The Hidden Mountain - Gabrielle Roy*****Lyrical, gorgeous writing - TY Daughter
(63)The Guards - Ken Bruen****
(64)Hungry Hill - Daphne du Maurier - thanks, bro!****
(65)Defending Jacob - William Landay{BC}****Unputdownable!
(66)Icy Sparks - Gwyn Hyman Rubio* FAIL
(67)Places Lost - Scott Walden*****
(68)The Dramatist - Ken Bruen***
(69)Headstone - Ken Bruen**
(70)Castaway - Elin Hilderbrand***
(71)Swamp Angel - Ethel Wilson*****
(72)The Black Box - Michael Connolly***
(73)Friendship,Hateship, Loveship, Courtship,Marriage - Alice Munroe(again)*****(BC)
(74)Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte (again&again)still hate it
(75)Olive Kitteridge - Elizabeth Strout*****
(76)The Year of the Flood - Margaret Attwood - dropped 2/3 in, not a fan of later Maggie
(77)White Heat - M.J. McGrath****
(78)A Death in Belmont - Sebastian Junger****
(79)Caught - Lisa Moore**** (thank you, Grandgirl!)

The Books of 2012

Here is a link to prior years' posts on BOOKS

Well it was a record year for me. 77 books read in 2012. Mainly because I cut back on my business demands (gulp) and jumped into the unknown. Reading so voraciously whets my appetite for writing. And vice-versa. Even as a small child my visits to the library were the hightlights of my week. I'm still in paper mode with books, though I do have an E-Reader. I don't think paper books will ever be of the past and I believe that publishers are making books more worthy and by that I mean they are including more beautiful endpapers and fancier editions.

Here's the list of 2012 reads in order of my reading them, I have highlit the very best:

Skin Room - Sara Tilley
Major Pettigrew's Last Stand (BC) - Helen Simonson***
The Other Hand - Chris Cleave*****
A World Elsewhere - Wayne Johnston**Not up to his usual standards
The Virgin Cure - Ami McKay*****
All He Ever Wanted - Anita Shreve*****
February - Lisa Moore(skimmed as re-read for BC-1/2)*****
Exit Lines - Joan Barfoot***
A Cold Day for Murder - Dana Stabenow**
Bay of Spirits - Farley Mowat*****Newfoundland,(thanks, Toddy!) beautifully told
Springfield Place - S.A. McCormick (won't rate, she's a friend)
Afterimage - Helen Humphreys*****beautiful
The Weight of Water - Anita Shreve****
Light on Snow - Anita Shreve*****one of her best
At Home In France - Ann Barry*****oh I hated leaving this one
Sea Glass - Anita Shreve***
Pagan Babies - Elmore Leonard*
The Way We Were - Marcia Willett***
Galore - Michael Crummey
Ethan Frome - Edith Wharton*****Oh to write like this!
Memories of Peter's River - Bride Martin (a friend: not rating)
Swimmer in the Secret Sea - William Kotzwinkle*****short, powerful
The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie - Alan Bradley(BC)****
The Best of Bernard MacLaverty - Bernard MacLaverty***
The Paris Wife - Paula McLain(BC)****
Heft - Liz Moore***** one of the best.ever.
The Transit of Venus - Shirley Hazzard*****
Grandmother's Footsteps - Carol Smith****excellent thriller, meaningless title
The Fault in our Stars - John Green*****One of the best
Sense of Wonder - Ann Patchett(BC)**
Thin Ice - Marsha Qualey***
Dressing Up for the Carnival - Carol Shields (again)***
Lies of Silence - Brian Moore*****Heart stopping, breathtaking
Because of Winn-Dixie - Kate Dicamillo*****beautiful
The Sleeping Beauty - Elizabeth Taylor *** A reissue, I love this writer
Mistaken - Neil Jordan**** (thanks Helen!)
The Collected Stories - John McGahern*****
Good to a Fault - Marion Endicott(BC)**** ( a little too long)
Pictures of You - Caroline Leavitt**** (dragged at end)
Black Juice - Margo Lanagan*bleurgh
Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant - Anne Tyler*****(wow!)
The Glass Castle - Jeannette Walls***
Where the Heart Is - Billie Letts****
The Best Laid Plans - Terry Fallis****polical humour at its best
Still Missing - Chevy Stevens*****compulsive,unputdownable
Savoury on the Tongue - Anthology**nothing to chew on
The Night Circus - Erin Morgenstern*what a painful slog with no payoff
Lullabies for Little Criminals - Heather O'Neill****
Broken Harbour - Tana French****
Gone Girl - Gillian Flynn*****
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time - Mark Haddon*****
Lost in Translation - Eva Hoffman****
The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel - Deborah Moggach***
Long Gone - Alafair Burke****
The Hijacking of Cassie Peters - Mary Stanley***
Beyond Belief - Liam Fay***
The Slap - Christos Tsiolkas(BC)*
The Emigrants - W.G. Sebald*****
The Famished Lover - Alan Cumyn*****
Seating Arrangements - Maggie Shipstead****
Ghostwritten - David Mitchell*****
Skeletons at the Feast - Chris Bohjalian(BC)0 gack!
Never Knowing - Chevy Stevens****
Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
The Broken Shore - Peter Temple****1/2
Winter Garden - Kristin Hannah(BC)****
The Calling - Inger Ash Wolfe****1/2
A Curious Dream - Kate Pullinger****
Snow Flower and the Secret Fan - Lisa See(BC)*****recommend
Truth - Peter Temple****
Christine Falls - Benjamin Black***
Guide to the Aran Islands - J.M. Synge
Still Life - Louise Penny***
The Taken - Inger Ash Wolfe***1/2
Consolation - Michael Redhill*****
The Rings of Saturn - W. G. Sebald*****
Eager to Please - Julie Parsons****
The Edible Woman - Margaret Attwood (again)*****

Some were re-reads - Wharton, Attwood - and worth it. Attwood writing of 1969 and perfect housewives I saw in the fresh light of 2012 and found myself nodding at how brilliantly she captures the interior rebellion of a woman caught sacrificing her spirit and not knowing it was sacrifice. Wharton, well because I think it's one of the most perfect stories ever written.

W.G. Sebald - all I can say if you haven't read him, please do. It is like sitting down with him and listening to him riff off on many topics.

Michael Redhill and his alter ego Inger Ash Wolfe were a fresh discovery. I have more on order.

Gone Girl and Still Missing were unputdownable crime novels.

Heft by Liz Moore was an incredible first novel. All about a huge man trapped in his own body. She actually wrote back to me when I sent her a fan rave.

Barry's At Home in France was also one of those books which held me in rural France and wouldn't let me go.

So there you have it. My year in books. Eclectic? Yeah, that's me alright.

Lessons

A time of reflection in the last few days, away from the whizz and bang.

(1) More than you would think really despise this season.

(2) More than you would think absolutely adore it.

And it has nothing to do with family or friends or being alone or not.

Now that I am older I censor myself more, do you find that? Less revealing to those younger than me. More revealing to those my age or older. I tamp myself down when talking with family, conscious of being boring with same old, same old or forced cheeriness. I would observe this phenomenon in elders as I got older myself. A contrived jolliness, less revealing, more dismissive of aches, pains, heartbreaks. Even though the heartbreaks hurt worse as I age and they get swallowed down. For fear of...more. It must be just fierce to be old and all one's peers gone. No one to talk to. Fear of being abandoned by those younger as too much of a downer? Perhaps. So one would have to remain secretive, unrevealed. A friend is doing this now. She is 84 and doesn't speak the truth like she used to. No more worries, no more cares, grins and chuckles all the time. Or maybe this is the nirvana I so desperately seek? When I turn 80 all days will be cloudless and giggles? I'm not talking dementia, though now that you mention it....

I'm still formulating these thoughts. I wrote, a lot, over these last few days. Good stuff I think. I read an entire book in 24 hours too. A lazy, decadent thing to do. I watched a few movies I'd seen before but good movies, like books, never lose their allure. They offer something new each time.

I ran away once too. But not for long. I play what ifs? when I do this. What if I vanished completely, just drove and drove. What if I went to the most expensive hotel in town and pretended I was somebody I was not. What if I got a blonde wig and dark glasses and just walked around jewellery stores. Back in the day a friend and I would do this, pretend we were people from out of town. And howl for days at the sheer entertainment value of it and the gullibility of people. Innocent masquerades. No fraudulent intent at all.

An old boyfriend would never grocery shop. He'd take your full one if your back was turned and check out. Saved him the time and trouble and only got stuck once with a box of tampons that he thoughtfully put in his washroom for people like me giving the illusion he was a considerate, caring, sensitive man. Everybody won in his life except the poor shopper who lost.

Did you win or lose this holiday season? I hope you won.

A friend woke up on Boxing Day with every room in her house trashed by grandchildren and their drunken minders. She wept as she emailed me. Her grandmother suicided on the railway tracks on Christmas Day and she totally understands.

And yes, I won too. I kept a very low profile and did the limbo beneath. All was calm. All was bright.

Calmy brights to all my blogland buddies.

The Long House

This book I just read?

Well, it wasn't a very good book, characters wandered in and out without much rhyme or reason. It was written by a Quebec author, an international best-seller and award winner, highly recommended, but written like she was poorly translated into the Anglaise.  But I persisted.

When I told one of my Quebecois writer friends I was reading this author she had dramatically raised one eyebrow (she does that so well, I wish I did) and said really? as in why waste my time.

I learn something from every single book. Even from this particular one,  though I will not read her again.  But now my curiousity is satisfied and I can say to myself, yeah, I read her, not impressed.

But, and it is a big but, there was one wonderful passage in it that I could strongly relate to:

P261: Living our lives was like living in a long house. We entered as babies at one end, and we exited when our time came. And in between we moved through this one great long room. Everyone we ever met and every thought and action lived in that room with us. Until we made peace with the less agreeable parts of our past, they'd continue to heckle us from way down the long house. And sometimes the really loud obnoxious ones told us what to do, directing our actions, even years later.
 

Somehow, my life became more manageable when I thought of it as a long house. Yes, sure there are hecklers but also there are some glorious wonderful times that I can glance back at now and again. And grin and do a little skip.

I don't have to stay in bleak December. Now I can run back and be in August 2012 if even for a few moments.