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.
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