Pre-Semester Honesty.

Process of creating syllabi:

Stage 1: Denial (two weeks before classes start).  “There’s plenty of summer left!  I’ll do it later.”

Stage 2: Preliminary Acceptance (one week and 6 days later).  “Ah hell, class is tomorrow…I’ll get started now.”

Stage 3: Naïve Excitement (upon immediately sitting down at the desk).  “This will be the best semester ever!  I have so many ideas, and two months of sunlight and socialization have washed away last semester’s disillusionment!”

Stage 4: Confusion (after consulting Official Academic Calendar, which is completely different than Regular People Calendar).  “Wait, that can’t be right…there’s an extra week here…”

Stage 5:  Apathy (when it’s getting late).  “Eh, I’ll just change the dates on last semester’s calendar.  It’ll transfer.”

Stage 6: Anger (when somehow last semester’s syllabus dates won’t transfer to the current one).  “@&#$^$%!  It’s the SAME as last year!  Why is there still an extra #*$&ing week?!”

Stage 7: Paranoia (when it’s getting later).  “This is IMPOSSIBLE to do!  Weeks don’t just magically appear!  Who ARE these people – wizards?!”

Stage 8: Final Acceptance (after a few beers).  “Oh forget it…we’ll just watch a movie that week.”

The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane - Kate DiCamillo

I have been reading more than I've been writing, but such is the life of a mid-semester-er.  Summer's coming - today was the first t-shirt-and-no-sweater day this year.  I am a cold-weather person, but even I get excited when I feel that first hint of warmth in the air.  It's the same feeling as a good hug, and I always appreciate such changes, even if they also make me sick.

Spring, I mean, not hugs.

Anyway, the book I'm writing about (The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane) has been out since...2006, I think?  I first read it in 2008 - beginning of the new year, actually - and it's become something of a regular event.  When I can handle it, that is.  Reading Edward Tulane is not unlike sitting by your best friend's deathbed.  This is probably why the reviews are mixed...

Edward is a china rabbit - a entitled, pompous china rabbit, that is.  He gets lost one day, and goes through a variety of owners.  Throughout the years, he slowly changes into a toy that cares for his owner(s).  The problem is that if you care for someone and lose them, it hurts.  So Edward not only learns to care/love, but also has to handle separation and loss...many, many times.

Parents have voiced some real issues here.  First is the problem that the toy gets lost and is, at times, mistreated.  Losing a loved toy as a kid sucks, and parents have to lie and say how it'll be found and loved by someone else.  That doesn't always happen to Edward, which is the harsh truth for many lost toys.  Not the best thing for a young kid to find out.

Secondly, the lives of the humans aren't that great.  Abilene, Edward's first owner, has a posh life.  That's all well and good, but becomes a harsh contrast to the two kids living in a shack with an abusive father, or the homeless men riding the trains.  Again, hard truths to learn, and maybe even harder to read it through the eyes of a toy.

I can understand the parents' concerns, but I wonder, if I read it as a child, would I have been bothered?  The toy is lost, yes, but he eventually makes it home.  And while the other characters' lives were tough, it was nothing more than reading, say, Bridge to Terabithia or The Journey of Natty Gann.  So, I doubt the concerns over young readers' emotional endurance.

Honestly, I think the discussion arises because there are multiple messages present in the book.  It's like A Series of Unfortunate Events: there were always jokes present (usually about books and authors) that only adults would get.  But those "inside jokes" didn't take away from the younger readers' enjoyment.

In Edward Tulane, readers get the same lesson as Edward: be open to love.  For young readers, this is something mostly unprecedented.  They can see that Edward opens up and cares about people, and that he experiences loss, but they're seeing it vicariously: they don't have the years on them to really understand.

Adults, on the other hand...we get it.  Edward, in the beginning, is hard.  He doesn't get hurt, because he doesn't care about anyone but himself.  When he starts to care, he also starts to hurt, and he tries to distance himself.  But he keeps hoping, and eventually is rewarded.  It's the most basic love story - that of friendship and loyalty and protection.  And when reading it, we remember various losses.  And we know.

I hate that parents don't want their kids to read Edward Tulane.  It's books like this that I treasure the most: the ones that have different meanings at different times in your life.  Even though I didn't read it as a kid, I know what my reaction would've been.  I would've been concerned about Edward, hoping he found his way home, and that his friends and previous owners all lived "happily ever after."

But as an adult, I get what Edward's lesson is: don't be afraid to care, and don't ever stop loving.

1/30 Out of the Pocket

I swear, I don't know what's going on with the sports literature - specifically, football.  I don't keep planning this.  And I still skim over the description of the games.  I ran across this one via my hometown library's e-book access (and if you use any library in TN, you oughta find out if they're a member of the R.E.A.D.S system).  It's about a gay high school quarterback (Bobby) dealing with the after-effects of being outted at the beginning of his senior year.

First, what I liked - the narrative was solid.  Never once did I fail to believe Bobby's voice.  And it's good to see gay characters breaking the stereotype, and his being gay becoming just part of who he is (his last spoken line at the end is wonderful).

But...I just didn't buy into the whole scenario.  I mean, ok, it's southern California.  I get that things might be a bit more progressive there than, say, at the high school I went to.  But really, it all just seemed too easy.  Bobby's  close friends are a little shocked at first, but just in the way that anyone reacts when told something so major (especially at 17).  Then they're fine.  His coach and mom, well, their reactions are less than perfect (mainly denial, but none of that "I have no son" business), but they come around quickly.  And his dad is completely supportive, but this could be because he is diagnosed with cancer halfway through the book.

Then the whole school finds out, and, save for, like, 6 of his teammates, people are clapping for the guy for coming out (which was accidental, though they aren't aware of that).  The whole concept was that the kids had less of a problem with Bobby's being gay due to being raised in a more gay-friendly culture than their parents.  That was true for some of them, but it seemed to Bobby's friends/teammates, that it was more because of who he was - their friend.

So while I believed Bobby, I didn't believe anyone else.  And that makes me wonder...is the author, Bill Konigsberg, writing about what would happen, or what should happen?  Most of the conflict Bobby runs into is in his own mind - it's his issue with being gay, not anyone else's.  At least, not anyone he's close to.  How is it that Bobby's coach can go from "you're just confused" to "hey, no problem, we're all a family!" in a handful of weeks?  Or that his mom can turn her perspective around overnight?

Then there's a major issue that was skirted over - Finch, the school newspaper reporter and all-around invisible man, is the one who outs Bobby in his column.  He does so to have an impressive writing sample to send in with his college applications.  He tells Bobby it was also to do him a favor (since Bobby was in agony over whether or not to tell anyone).  Bobby, understandably, is furious at Finch, but eventually realizes Finch gave him the opportunity to "change the world" for gay male athletes.

But before Bobby has this epiphany, he confronts Finch about the betrayal.  Finch says that Bobby doesn't get it - that everyone loves a "jock" and he can do no wrong.  But Finch will always be ignored, and basically, were the situation reversed, the outcome would've been different.

Now, that's something interesting to bring up - how maybe certain things only matter in high school if you're not top dog.  Or maybe if you don't act like they matter - or maybe if you're the one to break the news.  But the idea ends there.  Bobby writes a follow-up article explaining that Finch broken confidence, but ultimately says he thanks him for it.  And that's that - the whole "it wouldn't be like this for everyone" allusion is over.

Why didn't Konigsberg follow up on that one?  And if we're writing about how things should be - about how most kids will basically be understanding, and adults will come around - why give some unresolved mention that this is typically not how things are?

Maybe I'm wrong on this one.  Maybe there's been enough exposure to where, for the most part, the negative backlash for gay teens is inner turmoil.  Not that that makes life easy, but it's a big step up from the days of inner turmoil AND getting thrown out of the house AND getting beaten up at school AND being told you're going to hell.  That's progress...isn't it?

Still, though, I'm not sure this was the most realistic depiction of a coming-out story.  If Konigsberg was just going to depict a few months in Bobby's life (that just happen to overlap with his coming out) and not try and convey a message about sexuality, it would be one thing.  But the message is there, and it just seems to be lost in the idealism of what should happen when an athlete comes out.

(Sans the Fred Phelps scene.)

Overall, not a waste of my morning, but not the best thing I've read all year.

-B.

1/28 - The Catcher in the Rye

There are like four or five books I'm wanting to write about - one that's relatively new (published in the fall), and a few that are "older."

But I can't let today go by without acknowledging Salinger.

I will be honest - the only Salinger book I've ever read is Catcher in the Rye.  But it's not the only one I own, and so it's just that whole "scheduling" nightmare that Nine Stories and Franny and Zooey are caught in.  In light of Salinger's death, I'll probably expedite those.  When an author you love dies, you sort of have that weird "death of a friend" reaction.  Instead of wishing you had called him one last time, you're left wishing you had read [that book] when he was still alive.

It makes no sense, I know, but very little we think makes any sense (if you were to really think about it).

Catcher is one I go back and read once every three years or so, starting at age 12.  What makes this one of my favorite books is that it was suggested to me by my dad.  When I was a kid, Dad wasn't a big reader.  (This has since changed, but only recently, and still not fiction.)  He disliked reading as a child/teen, so if he were to recommend something to me, I knew it had to be good.  Catcher in the Rye was that book.  He gave me a copy when I was in middle school, saying "if you feel misunderstood and hate the world and everyone in it right now, you'll appreciate this."  I didn't hate everyone, but he was right.

Catcher's a book that I appreciate for different reasons at different points in my life.  The last kick was the fact that it was written for adults, but appreciated by teenagers.  I love books like that that get "adopted" by a young adult audience, without being written for them.  I think that's why - the author writes what is true, and teens are receptive to that.  Holden doesn't really know what to do with his life, which, I imagine, would be a refreshing narrative in comparison with YA books of "old."  Fifteen now is still like fifteen then, so no wonder it's still a favorite novel of teenagers each generation.  That's universality, man - it's the Dark Side of the Moon for literature.

Salinger was an old dude, so it's not like we can really feel cheated.  I think it was Homer Simpson who said "That's what old people do,  son.  They die."  But you still feel a loss in the literary realm.  Salinger wasn't publishing - and his quotes on why he stopped make a pretty interesting case for the definition of art - but he was still writing.  And even if he stopped sharing what he saw, the world still seems different without that perspective:

Among other things, you find that you're not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You're by no means alone on that score, you'll be excited and stimulated to know.  Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now.  Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles.  You'll learn from them--if you want to.  Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you.  It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement.  And it isn't education.  It's history.  It's poetry.

1/18/10 "The Rifle" - Gary Paulson

When I lived in North Carolina, I took a conceal/carry class in Johnson City over Memorial Day weekend.  I did it for a few reasons: first, for the hell of it; second, because my dad had recently gone through the class and thought I’d find it interesting; and third, because despite growing up around guns, my parents never had firearms in the house (meaning I had no experience).

I took the 8-hour class, I shot three rounds on a colt .22, and I got certified to carry a concealed weapon that I didn’t even own. 

Later that summer, I took another firearms course from the TWRA.  This time, they had an assortment of firearms: .22s, .38s, a peacemaker, a glock, a 9mm beretta.  They also had rifles of various calibers.  I shot the rifle first.  My handgun skills were mediocre, but I was a crackshot at the rifle.

Let me back up.  We didn’t have serious firearms growing up, but we did have Dad’s BB gun back from the 50s.  It was shaped like a rifle – about the size and even weight of a .22.  When we lived in the country, Dad explained that yes, Ralphie, the gun could put your eye out.  That’s why we shouldn’t shoot at each other.  It probably had enough power to kill a small bird, so Atticus said that's why we shouldn’t shoot at animals.  And then my father and I spent the afternoon shooting BBs straight up into the air and running from them as they fell back to earth.

(We did the same thing with a bow and arrow a year or so later. The only rule my Dad had about danger was that he wanted to be a part of it.)

We moved into the city limits when I was 7.  Neighborhood watch tends to frown on blindly shooting BBs up into the sky.  By this point I was old enough to be trusted with the gun – that is, to not shoot something living.  It was too big, and I was too small, to worry about me going Cobain or Hemingway.  So I’d go out on Saturday mornings, when the air was thick with humidity and the tall grass wet with dew, and shoot coke cans off our wooden fence.  The BBs would lodge in the thin aluminum, or if I missed – which happened less and less as I got older and steadier – they’d disappear into the wood out back.

I did this a lot, growing up. That’s why, I think, when I held the rifle for the first time near twenty years later, it seemed more natural.  I knew what it was to have this extension of myself.  The handgun concept was still new, but this…this was familiar.

Before I left for Kentucky, my grandmother gave me my great-grandma’s .410 shotgun.  I took it home and cleaned it (and cleaned it and cleaned it), and before I left, Dad and I went out to a friend’s property and fired it.  It was still a good shot, so I took it back and sat it next to my bed.  I like it sitting there.  Partially because it belonged to Granny A-, the family matriarch I met once or twice before she died at age 104.  The mother of my grandfather, a wild man who died long before I was born, but is still very much alive in my father’s stories.

And partially, because I know how to use it, if I had to.

I say all this to explain that, part of the reason I picked up Gary Paulson’s The Rifle was because of the title.  Also, I’m a big fan of Paulson.  I read Hatchet back as a kid, as well as Dogsong and a few others.  As an adult, I’ve gone back and read over the classics, and tried to find the ones I’ve missed (because man, Paulson wrote a lot).

Paulson writes about the woods, and animals, and nature, and the man knows what he’s talking about.  He lives in New Mexico and owns property in Alaska where he trains dogs for the Iditarod (which he’s raced in a number of times).  He is a hunter and a trapper.  He ain’t no city slicker.

And I say all this to explain that The Rifle might possibly be one of the most misunderstood books I’ve come across in recent years.

It’s a novella, basically – about 100 pages long.  I read it while simmering rice to mix with some gumbo I’d made the night before.  Wikipedia claims it proves the statement “guns don’t kill people, people kill people,” which is wrong.  Reviewers on Amazon call it “liberal propaganda,” which is wrong.  It is, simply put, a depiction of the continuing life of a rifle, as well as snippets of the lives it comes into contact with.

Given that it’s just 100 pages, and that everything in the story is moving towards this one event, it’s hard to write this and not spoil the climax.  But honestly, you know what’s going to happen from the “teaser” on the back.  I clipped along at a steady pace, and then slowed during the last 20 pages or so…knowing what was coming, and trying to hold it off.  Paulson’s good like that.  His style is such that information is straight-forward and blunt.  His characters – his young men – are hard.  And you love them.  And as though this were real, when something happens, response is such that readers are quick to blame something, someone, anything, anyone.  That’s why reviewers will call this book anti-gun.

But I think they’re missing the point.

Early in the story, the narrator explains that everything is connected.  One change in the past could alter a major outcome in the future.  He implies importance in understanding the full picture of history, and not just “selecting” information to store away for later.  Otherwise, we fail to see where we are and how we got here, and we stand to lose a lot from that ignorance.

This book is not pro- or anti-gun.  But you can look at it like an allegory all the same.  What’s wrong with failing to see or understand how history builds on itself?  How one moment can have a dramatic effect nearly two hundred years later?  The message is more about the importance of history – not just overall history, but individual as well.  Which is why I see the gun in my bedroom primarily as an offshoot of my lineage…and why it always sits on its butt, opened and unloaded, and with the barrel pointed upwards.

And the ending?  The ending is a reminder that not everything dies, so it’s important to pass it along with care, and knowledge.

1/16/10 - "Deadline," Part II.

Ok.  So.  As previously mentioned, everyone who can understand the English language by age 15 or so should read Crutcher's Deadline.  Yes, I have expanded the original requirement.  I have my reasons.

Crutcher's novels are generally sports-related, and Deadline is about football.  I've already discussed this - I know sports lit means more to team athletes than it does to me.  That's not to say I can't appreciate it, because I do understand what people get from participating in or watching football (see previous entry: The White Gates).  And if at some point I have a kid - boy OR girl - and they get into football...well, my parents went to all of my band concerts, so you'd better believe I'd be there and would learn the lingo fast.

Granted, Crutcher doesn't only write about football - the first book of his I read, Stotan!, is about a swim team, and I know he's covered track.  But like all good books, there is a balance of pure action (the games/meets) and plot.  They tie in together, but reading a Crutcher novel for someone who doesn't follow certain sports isn't like reading the sports page.  It's an addition, not the glue that holds it together.

So this works in two ways - you've got appeal to folks who don't follow sports, but you have a hook for any readers who do.  This is what I like about sports lit and the presumably "reluctant reader" - you can have enough description of a sport to appeal to its young followers, and then balance it out (or use it for) plot/character development, symbolism, etc.  I am convinced that is why my entire 7th grade English class reacted the way we did to S.E. Hinton's The Outsiders - we were 12 and, having recently seen   and most likely misinterpreted Dangerous Minds, were into the idea of gang fighting.


The thing with Crutcher is, he's both real, and represents reality.  Make no mistake, these are two separate things.  He's real in the sense that his characters are real teenagers.  They drop the F-bomb.  They think about, and talk about, and have sex.  They are full of that energy that is both euphoric and terrifying, and aren't quite sure where to direct it.  Crutcher is the second YA author who I thought was much younger than he actually is, because his descriptions of high school, of teenagers, were too pure to be written by an adult.  As we grow up, we lose that sense of what being young really was - the good and the bad and what we really did and said - and idealize it in our minds and gloss over it in our writing.    But that's not how it is, and I always admire those writers who, for lack of a better description, keep it real.

Crutcher also represents reality in the same way that the Degrassi series does.  That is, his characters are facing issues that might be overlooked in other works of fiction.  Crutcher routinely writes about mental illness (and we're making that a very umbrella term: not just depression/anxiety), about rape, about molestation, about alcoholism, about suicide, about drug use, about abuse (again, very broad), and about illness...just to name a few. And these aren't issues that are brought up, like, one-per-book: you'll have run the entire gamut by the time you get the the end of Deadline.

Even writing that, I know it sounds like his work is melodramatic.  But what separates Crutcher's writing from ye old "problem novel" is the fact that that he doesn't just focus on one problem.  Narrator Ben Wolf is dying, yes, but by the time you reach the final few chapters of the book, it almost seems like he's getting off easy compared to what's going on with other characters.  It puts things in perspective.  Ben doesn't tell anyone what's going on with him, just the same way other characters aren't up front about their own demons.

So, what's the rationale for making this required reading for all of humanity (yes, one last expansion)?  It isn't the previously described drama, which Crutcher handles with an impressive, delicate distance (in fact, if you read reviews on Amazon, some readers feel there should have been more emotional outbursts to such situations...but at some point, we need for fiction to show how reality should be, not how it most often is).  Rather, it is Ben's response to his one-year "deadline" - his dedication to his final year of school, his persistence in his final football season, and his passion at leaving "something" behind before he's gone.  What he starts out to do is to challenge the school's "traditional" teaching of American history (and props to Ben for referencing James Loewen's Lies My Teacher Told Me, Alex Haley's The Autobiography of Malcolm X, and David Sedaris).  What Ben winds up attempting is a seemingly futile request to have a local street name changed to "Malcolm X Avenue," and thereby force his small, all-white town to recognize that racism still exists.

The book is back at the library now, but there's a line towards the end about how Ben "lived like [he] was going to die tomorrow, but with the understanding that any action affected others."  In context, that was such a powerful idea - to live without fear, but to recognize that things said and choices made have an impact on others, even after we're gone.  And "gone" could mean anything here - graduating, moving - though Ben is focusing on a more permanent departure.

There's so much more to the book that what I've said.  Ben's coach...I could write so much about that character, but I'm pretty sure 80% of it is due to the fact that I was seriously infatuated with him by the time the book was over.  Essentially, Crutcher really hit a stride here.  I'm plenty happy to embrace this as his magnum opus, but personally, I'm still hoping the best is yet to come.

1/10/10 - Every Soul a Star

Every Soul a Star (Wendy Mass)

This covers about two weeks (leading up to a total solar eclipse) through the perspectives of three teenagers.  It’s the old “unlikely friendship” story, though there are actually 6 characters in the group of friends.

Mass’ plot is really strong.  She jumps back and forth between each character, but the story isn’t 100% linear.  For instance, Ally will describe one incident and you’ll see Jack present, but it won’t be clear what’s happening.  Then Jack will follow up and give his perspective, and what was going on in that original scene will become clear (without the exact same scene being replayed).   But since the time overlaps, you don’t get clarity on some points immediately, which is good.

I love the various narratives in the story, but they came with an issue: there’s not a strong distinction between the voices unless there’s dialogue.  This might not be a problem, except really the majority is narrative.  I mean, it’s obvious who’s talking, but there should be some alteration in tone or even syntax.  Like, Bree is a “popular girl,” and every now and then she describes something as “fab.”  But those times are few and far between.  Wouldn’t she, even in internal dialogue, have a more distinct voice than Ally?  Or Jack?  For that matter, for someone really intelligent, Ally’s narration should sound different than Bree.

You can make the comparison with Robert Cormier – The Chocolate War was primarily focalized (third person) through Jerry, but when Cormier would swap perspectives into another character, the voice shifted.  One character had a catch phrase or two that another wouldn’t – just like in reality, if they were speaking.  So the fact that Mass is using first-person narrative should necessitate such distinction even more.

Aside from that, the descriptions of space and astronomy were wonderful.  The description of the solar eclipse was amazing, absolutely amazing.  And the fact that the kids were part of groups that real people can join – SETI, for instance – was cool.  I like when authors use these real-life references, so the reader can, say, go to SETI’s website and hook her computer up and be part of the search for extra-terrestrial life.  Not that I’m talking about me, or anything…

But the best thing I took away from this book was the realization that on August 21, 2017, Christian Co. KY – about an hour or so from where I live – will have the best viewing of a total solar eclipse.  I cannot wait to see the moon’s shadow race up to meet me.

01/9/10 - Deadline

1.  Deadline - Chris Crutcher

I should say a lot about this book.  But not now.  I tried but everything's fragmented, and not only do the ideas not tie together, they're not complete.  And though I'm writing these for myself, I still can't stand fragmentation.

(Plus, the last few responses have been hella long.  Brevity'll break it up a bit.)

All I will say is this: if it were required that all high school freshman read one book, this would be it.  I realize that's a pretty fascist idea for someone who registered as a socialist in college, but I truly believe it.  Now's the time when I justify why, but we'll have to come back to that later.

For now, just get the book.

1/7/10 - "Marcelo in the Real World" and "The White Gates."

Classes start in approx. 5 days (that’s 120 hours, but who’s counting?), which means this whole “two books a day” frenzy will soon be at an end.

Until summer.

But, for the next few days – excepting the hours that are spent doing laundry and cleaning and cooking and doing what I’m paid to do – I’m trying to knock out as many novels as I can. I went to the library the other day for one book and came out with five, because I’d find a couple that I remember reading something about, and a couple that just looked interesting (judgment based on title and/or subject and/or dust jacket). And although I do not have an addictive personality for things many people would be addicted to, if i seen a book that "looks interesting" at the library, I have to take the book with me.

Relevant Aside: I can’t explain why when I go in a bookstore or library I get this feeling of intense hunger, like I could eat forever and never satisfy it. At times it’s depressing – to know that, no matter how much I read, there will always be more. I’ll always be missing something – something great – and I’ll never get it all. But at other times it’s comforting to know greatness will continue to be there: there’s no way I could ever experience it all. Someday I won’t get to anymore, but hell, at least I would’ve made a dent in it.

In one of my first grad classes – Lit. for Young Adults – we had to write an essay over what we liked to read when we were kids. I wrote how my reading experience was much like what happens when you go to an all-you-can-eat buffet with a serious appetite and no real focus. You’re standing in line, near chewing your arm off from the hunger, and when you get ahold of that white plate, you just kind of go into a zone. Before you know it, you’ve got steak and seafood and Chinese and tacos and pizza all piled together, and you’re only headed back to your seat because you can’t fit anymore on the damn plate. But this doesn’t mean you won’t go back and get, say, some casserole and baked beans, and eventually make your way to the desert (salad? salad is just not an option in these times).

My point was, I didn’t have a preference. I read everything. Some things were recommended to me, and others I picked up after reading the summary. Eventually I got to where I liked certain authors (Katherine Paterson, S.E. Hinton, Gary Paulson, Kevin Anderson of the novelized Star Wars/X-Files world), and would seek out their work. But probably 75% of my choices were arbitrary – I picked up those books because I needed to read something, and it just felt right.

For a while, the hunger subsides.

Anyway.

The last two books are recent. Marcelo in the Real World (Francisco X. Stork) and The White Gates (Bonnie Ramthun).

Marcelo is up for awards this year, and it’s clear why. The narration is wonderful. The ability to identify with Marcelo – who, for lack of a better label, identifies along the Autism spectrum – is solid without being preachy or anything.

Since we’re on the subject, that’s something that pisses me off – I can’t stand it when you’ve got a character that is in some way disabled, and they’re used to “teach a lesson.” Like that’s the ultimate purpose. It just seems limiting to assume that a character is going to automatically know more about life or the world because they are “different” in some respect. Typically they are not the primary characters. But god, it’s so old, and just so limiting. For as much as I loved the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants series, that irked me about the first book: Bailey has cancer, Bailey teaches Tibby about the world and life and shit, and then Bailey dies. Of course Bailey dies. We knew she would – it’s the way this formula works! And for a writer who really kept an element of realism to her work, Brashares disappointed me on that level.

Granted, the Bailey situation heightened the other 3 novels and it became more real and better crafted. But the first one, I dunno, the whole clichéd kid-with-cancer bit just didn’t do it for me. And so I’m really glad Stork keeps Marcelo real. You lose the character’s verisimilitude, you lose the reader.

I know there’s more to be said on how important novels like this can be for Autistic teens (even if Marcelo isn’t autistic), but what got me was the religious aspect. Religion is complicated. I hate talking about it, in any capacity. Many YA books I read sort of gloss over it – the character has some religious connection, but not strong. Maybe they go to church on Christmas and Easter. This keeps them in the good graces of the Christian kids, but lets kids of other or no faiths understand that this person won’t be preaching to them – easy way to make everyone happy. Marcelo, however, considers religion to be his “special interest.” And he’s Catholic, but he hangs with a female rabbi and names his dog after a Buddhist prayer. God is discussed in the book, but in a very abstract, open sense. Marcelo’s beliefs are Marcelo’s, but they transcend organized religion and delve more into spirituality – or, more appropriately – humanity. It’s satisfying to see another option besides YES RELIGION and NO RELIGION, both of which only work to exclude.

For as deep and rich and real as Marcelo was, The White Gates was not. I knew that going into it. And I did not care, because this was a novel about snowboarding. Snowboarding. When I saw the boarder on the cover, I thought “Oh shit yes,” and took it without even reading the summary.

First, the critique. This follows the typical kid-mystery where the kids are in danger and save themselves of their own accord. Not likely, but still exciting and empowering, so suspend your disbelief at the door.

Near as I can reckon, though, there are two types of books: ones where you forget the author, and ones where you don’t. It’s much like the movies – you forget that’s an actor on screen and instead buy into the fact that it’s a character. In The White Gates, I could hear Ramthun about 80% of the time over the characters. Now that’s a problem in a kid-mystery, where the kids outsmart the bad guys (adults) and take control of the situation. The one thing you don’t want to hear during those times is the author – an adult.

But hell, this is Ramthun’s first YA novel. Stepping back and letting the young-folk characters direct the story takes time. Besides, I picked up the book not for the unknown story, but because there was a snowboarder on the cover.

I’ve read a handful of YA novels dealing with sports. The last one was The Million Dollar Throw by Mike Lupica. It was about football. I do not care for football. It’s not a moral stance; I just generally don’t care for the game. So I read through the novel and, I admit, I skimmed the chapters where he describes all things football. I knew it had to do with the plot, and I knew that readers who enjoy (or at least understand) football would get more out of it. And although I really liked the book, I just wasn’t one of those people.

But with The White Gates, I was totally one of those people. For the issues I had with the voice, I was in love with her description of the slopes, and Torin’s response to the sport. I remembered the same agony of spending the majority of your first runs on your ass, and then identified with Tor’s excitement when he felt the board finally “come alive” beneath his feet.

And the best part – the part I have always felt, will hopefully always feel, when I strap in – was this:

He could still feel the sensation of being up and riding a snowboard. It was exactly like the dreams he’d had as a small child, of flying through the sky without wings or plane, being able to swoop and soar however he liked.

It’s an amazing feeling, and she did a helluva job capturing it. And not just the feeling, but the sounds of the sport:

A sound like someone tearing a piece of paper in two announced the arrival of Gloria.

Ahhh..that sound…

Now if you’ll excuse me, we actually got some snow here. And while my backyard isn’t a ski resort anymore – oh Torin, I’ve lived your life briefly – I’ve got enough of a slope to practice my jumps.

01/04/10 - Books.

Ten years ago I was thinking that I knew Y2K was a crock, but also sort of disappointed it didn’t follow through. I think I could survive in social anarchy – my reading preferences as a young adult prepped me for it.

On that topic, last January I started a list of all the books I read during the year. The main purpose was a memory-jogger for years down the road: if I was reading a book and a plot seemed familiar, I could actually cross-check it instead of pressing on until something clicked. But also, I wondered about how many books I read in a year. I finished at 69, with 2 incomplete (so they’ll make this year’s list - can’t figure out if that’s equal or not).

I really thought I could clear 100, because while I do read actual books for adults, my favorite genre is young adult fiction. Some of those you can knock out in a day. And while I read a lot of YAF, I was also living in North Carolina for most of the year. North Carolina, with ski slopes in the winter. North Carolina, with clear lakes for fishing, and trails for hiking, and summers that feel more like early spring. Reading is a top priority for me, but ignoring where I lived would’ve been like turning away from the glance of a man you love. Sometimes you’re strong, sometimes you’re not. I was infatuated – in love, even – and as we do, I sacrificed moments of my free time. And I have no regrets.

Where I live now has all of the cold, less of the snow, and none of the hills. While I’d love to run, it’s actually cold enough that when my mind tells my body it’s not a good idea, my body listens. And we sit inside, getting fat on cabbage soup, country ham, and biscuts, and wait for the thaw.

And until then, we read.

But a year passes and I am thinking, I oughta start responding to some of this, because what good is a list without annotations? I look back in 10, 20, 30 years and remember I read “Coraline” in 2009, but don’t remember that I loved it and hated that the movie added a new character? Or that my favorite thing about Gary Paulson is that not only is he a great writer, but he’s the type of guy who, when the robots take over – and they will take over – will survive out in the woods with his dogs? Or that Twilight sucked?

Hence, my actual return to the blog, as I have found something less awkward to write about than, like, my feelings. So here you have my feelings…on books.

1. If I Stay – Gayle Forman.

Trivia: This is officially the first ebook I’ve ever read. I say this because it might explain the next critique – I wasn’t totally convinced by the dialogue. Conversations between characters are something I pay attention to, and if I don’t buy it, then my disbelief is failing to suspend. It’s not that it really got to me – parts of it just seemed unconvincing, especially for teenagers (and parents in their 30s). But it wasn’t persistent, which makes me wonder if the first-experience-reading-online had something to do with it. Additionally, this is one of Forman’s first novels. If she had to leave something to be desired, then the occasional lapse in dialogue is ok by me.

On the plus side, I totally bought into the overall plot. The story isn’t original, but the take is new. The emotion is real, without being overly done or sentimental, which is difficult in any book with a focus on death/dying. And the descriptions are really solid – again without being over-the-top.

There are also all kinds of comments about punk rock, which (to me) was awesome.

2. Surface Tension – Brent Runyon

It’s 4 days into the new year, and if I have to pick a favorite book of the year (out of the 4 I’ve read so far), this is it. I think this will still be it by the end of the year, or at least in the top 5.

Another ebook – this one picked because the author contributes to “This American Life.” And because he’s a guy. I really, really like it when men write YAF. I’m not sure if that’s sexist or the opposite, but it makes me happy because it’s going against the norm, and they can be pretty damn good at it.

This one’s broken up into summers (subtitle: "A Novel In Four Summers") – a boy and his family return to a family lake cottage when he is 13, 14, 15, and 16. I read this because I could relate, sort of. We didn’t have a family cottage or anything, but every summer, my parents and I went to the same location and stayed in the same place. I knew what it was like to leave a place and come back a little different each time. And while I am not now, nor have I ever been, a 13 year old boy, I always appreciate a book that can make me empathize with someone. The boy and girl thing, it’s like living next to someone and having a mirror view of their room. The picture is a little distorted, but every now and then you get a clearer image, and you realize they have an E.T. poster, too. Surface Tension is like getting a better view of the mirror.

The voice is believable. The tone has shifted from 13 to 14, 14 to 15, and so on. But it doesn’t change and become something else. What I like best is that it is entirely first-person – not only appropriate for a teenage narrative (male OR female), but you also get ambiguity. Anything Luke experiences alone, you get the full picture. But when other people are involved – especially the adults – there is confusion because we’re only hearing one side of the story. Issues were raised that made me want clarity or explanation, but the day would end and Luke would be off doing something else. It wouldn’t make sense to explain every little moment. That’s not how life works, especially not if you’re a young teen. Stuff happens, and it doesn’t always make sense. It was refreshing to read something that brought back feelings of confusion and ambiguity.

I wasn’t 100% into Jenn (“16” – who writes a postcard like that?) but the method made sense. Pretty much, my only criticism is that I just wish this one were longer, but then would I appreciate it as much? The irony is that as an older Luke chastised himself for wishing away his childhood, I read through his narrative quickly, always glancing to the next page, and then wished I had slowed down a little once it was over.

What should also be on this list is the textbook I’ve yet to read for the syllabus I’ve yet to write for class that starts next week.