Reading and Happiness

Great article in this month’s Reader’s Digest titled, “How Reading Makes You Happy” by Jessica Cassity. The list of reasons: encourage positive thinking, friendship, teaches empathy, stirs memories, inspires.

Wow, just from reading. Seems impossible. Yet, I do remember the exquisite happiness of every other Saturday when the family made the trip to the library. To this day, nothing makes me as happy as browsing through shelves and stacks of old books. Old books are like the library of my youth. The Children’s section was in the basement and every visit was full of wonder and tactile sensory invasions. Of lemon oil and heavy oak furniture, card files, long scarred tables and chairs that scuffed and dragged the wooden floor. Books and books and books, hardback books, books with library cards and cream-colored pages, just slightly musty, the outside covers dark muted navy or green or burgundy. The hushed whispers, the occasional too-loud laugh, the white-haired, grandmother-faced Mrs. Peterson shushing.

I was in fifth grade when Mrs. Peterson told my mother I had scoured through and read everything in the children section I was even possibly interested in. (That summer I decided to read every fiction book on horses in the library. It was a whole shelf long, but I did it. How I wish I could remember the titles. That was also the year I decide I wanted to grow up and be just like Louis May Alcott. Hey, look where writing got her.) She told mother to take me on upstairs to the Adult fiction.

Truth to tell, the Adult section wasn’t nearly as sensuous. Truth was it was a bit of a letdown. There were no doll collections, no aquariums, no terrariums, no stereoscopes, but the upside was I could look in the same section as my older siblings. I thought I was something and I did find reading to fall in love with and yes, happiness. Think Gone with the Wind, Forever Amber, Rod McKuen, Shane and Mrs. Mike and happiness. 

Note: One of my regrets, not really a life changing one, but, maybe, a life enriching one, is that I didn’t write down all the many, many books I read from the time I started reading, especially, from that year on. I didn’t think about doing so until 1994. How I wish I had. It’s tough going back, but I do try. I wish I had encouraged my children, all good readers, to do so, but I didn’t think of it. You can be sure I encourage my grandkids.

Remember these two things:
The world would be a happier place if we got rid of illiteracy, right?
When the world is crazy and things like 9/11, Sandy, shootings happen and you're sitting at your desk wondering if what you're doing is important, remember...it is. 

It's Kaki's Fault

I braided my hair today. So, what, you asked. Well, two years ago I had so little hair, I couldn’t. Last year, I had so much new growth sticking out; I looked a bit like a dandelion. Today, a real nice braid.

What has this to do with Kaki, you ask. Nothing, just a gratitude observation. I try to have one every day.

So, what did Kaki do? And Kaki who?

It all started when I went looking for her book, HEARTBREAK CREEK by Kaki Warner. I have loved every one of the books in her Blood Rose Trilogy. Such wonderful Old West stories, right up my alley, right between the general store and the saloon. As I mentioned, although, I figured it would be so; we had to travel a ways to find it. But, as I mentioned before, that is the state of affairs when it comes to bookstores around here. (It will only get worse, I’m sure.) My husband is not much of a reader and it took him a long time, a really long time to figure out how much a part of me reading was.

It was a case of, love me, love my cat. He did not like cats, but I came with one. One big, gorgeous white long-hair Manx, Tiffany, who thought she was queen of her world. They circled each other for a while, Tiffany tried to seduce his Uncle, which got him appreciating her, at least, and then, a few years later, me and my boys brought home another. That one bit him while he was sleeping. Right under his arm…I think she thought it was a mouse. He thought it was…well, I can’t exactly use the words here.

He’s come to like cats…or maybe, he’s just afraid not to…Anyway, it was love me, love my books. That’s been just as hard for him. I remember his mother once telling me she’d given up reading because every time she sat down to read, his father would find something for her to do. I doubt he even realized. Men can be such…as Edwina, in HEARTBREAK CREEK says, lumps. I think it was just seeing her sit down.

I wasn’t about to let that happen, books were too much a part of me and he sees how it mellows me out, fills me, he sees what writing does for me, he’s my number one fan, but still…

I rushed through Texas Blue by Jodi Thomas (I did like this book, too.) I was reading so I could get to HEARTBREAK CREEK, I opened the front cover. I always read the praises, the acknowledgements and then, finally the first page…

“Honey, where are you? I thought we needed to go to your mothers?”

Oh, oh. I forgot and darn, but I’ve just got to finish this page. “I’ll be right there.”

Much later after we return home, a shadow passes over. I hardly notice, but it doesn’t go away. I concentrate harder…I will not look up, I will not look up…He’s standing there watching me read. I feel my lips press together.

“What were you going to fix for dinner?”

“Of course, I was just going to finish this page.”

“It’s six. I’m kind of…”

Six o’clock, dang, I was only going to read a minute. “I’m right on it.”

That night, late: “Honey, where are you?”

“I’m washing my face.” A blatant lie.

Much later: “Are you all right?”

“Sure, why?”

“I just wondered if you were coming to bed, it’s midnight.”

Holy cow! I’ve got my mom’s hair to do in the morning and…what was I thinking.

I was thinking…It’s Kaki’s fault. The dishes not getting in the dish washer, (my husband did it) the laundry unfolded (my husband did it), the dishes put up. (my husband again)

Next afternoon, after the hair, before dinner as I close the book. “Are you done with that?”

“Yes.”

“Good, that means I have my wife back, right?”

“Well, until COLORADO DAWN is out.”

“When is that going to be?” he asked with no small amount of trepidation.

“Not soon enough.”

Bagged It

So, come afternoon I went in search of Kaki Warner’s book HEARTBREAK CREEK, just released yesterday. I could have downloaded it on my Kindle, but for this book, it had to be the real, solid, hands on thing. I planned an old-fashioned reading orgy as soon as I finished my current book, Texas Blue by Jodi Thomas, another favorite author in Western Historicals.

First stop, Wal-Mart. Not my favorite place for books and really, I was just hopin’ that as long as I had to run to the bank and they had a bank in Wal-Mart, I could combine errands. No luck.

Next, Target, pretty good around here for books, but no HEARTBREAK. Then, a phone call to the nearest Barnes and Nobles, not really that far, but compared to a few years ago, far. There were two great bookstores just two blocks from my house a few years ago. I hate to even say how much money I used to spend at the two stores. (Plus, a B Dalton at the mall not five miles from here. Now, a trip on the freeway many more miles away.) I can tell you this…it was every penny I saved clipping coupons for groceries. That was how I got the money for books when my boys were small. It was a challenge and the only way I could afford the tons of books I read, too.

My boys would wager on how much I could save and watch the receipts reach the floor, cheering me on. Of course, they got some of the money for their own reading. (I have good readers.) Actually, I still do it, even now, when I don’t really have to, I cut, sort and use coupons for book money. I buy fewer groceries, save less with coupons, but I use every penny on books. (And a bit more, too. Books are as important to me as food…all except, chocolate…oh, and as you know office supplies. But that’s just another addiction. I have so many.)

I digress…Anyway; I bagged a copy of HEARTBREAK CREEK before it was even out on the shelves. I was shocked that none of her other books were on the shelves and mentioned it to the clerk that checked me out.” Hey, Kaki Warner just won the RITA, maybe you ought to get some of her books on those shelves.” They looked at me like…Who is this?

I’m happy, too, and looking forward to a few evenings out on my patio with book, lemonade and quiet…Please.

Oh, by the way another addiction I just learned about, about myself: staplers. Yes, staplers. I’ll post some pictures of some great old staplers I found. For now, writing, reading and cutting coupons.

Books

I grew up kissing books and bread. —Salman Rushdie

I am a book junkie. All sorts of books—poem, short story, novel, nonfiction, cereal boxes. Yes, I love to read. Reading is good, but it goes way beyond just reading. Oh, I’ll read anything, if my particular fix isn’t available, I resort to reading the backs of cereal boxes, flyers, match covers. It doesn’t matter. Books are my drug of choice.

Reading has saved me more than once, but it is the book, the physical, solid familiar book. And it doesn’t matter what book. Old musty books draw me like a kid to water. The smell, the feel of old leather covers, the dark mysterious covers, but best of all are old books with margin writing or writing on the blank pages in the front or back.

Bookstores hold me gripped by want and need. Old books, new books, paperback books, it doesn’t matter. I love snorting the musky scent of old books and touching the fragile pages. I love thumbing through new crisp paged books with the bright colors and paperbacks are like penny candy to me.

Worse, give me an hour and I will find, at least, five books I simply must have, no matter where I happen to be. Boxes of old books at the flea market can make my day. I don’t need any more books, I don’t have room for them, but they call me like little orphaned kittens. And I am caught. I cannot say no.

I was in junior high when I started writing in margins and front and end pages. I think it was the idea of ‘being published’ that did it. Knowing the words I wrote would be seen by some new seventh grader the next year.

I’ve tried to save me from myself. It doesn’t matter. I cannot deny my addiction.

Poems and Books

My love affair with books began early. Sometimes I wonder if I was born loving books and the written word. In any case, I don’t think I could have escaped it in my family. My parents valued books. I don’t remember a time my mother and father weren’t reading books, magazines and the paper. Poems were, more often than not, our bedtime stories.

I learned very young that there was a world in books, a world where I not only belonged, but thrived. I was lucky enough to have teachers who not only taught the value of reading, but books. I remember the excitement of a new text book and how my teachers guided us through the first opening of those books. Carefully opening the front cover, turning a few pages and sliding my hand over the crisp page, the smell of new and ink and paper, repeating the action until the whole book had been seasoned for use.

I’ve never gotten over that experience. I love new books and find myself repeating the same careful ritual. You can’t do that with a Kindle or Nook. That’s not to say I don’t use those devices, just that the experience is…different. Still pleasing, but doesn’t quite touch the same memory buttons.

Books are very tactile for me. There is something tangible and real to the feel of a book in hand. Books are my obsession. I can’t pass a bookstore without taking, at least, one peek inside and then, like a drug, I end up buying and using. I love to read the blurbs and the first page to see if it interests me. I love the idea of being told a story. Frankly, it’s the same as finding a story in my writing. I can’t walk by old books at antique stores or flea markets, either.

Oh, now, there’s obsession. I could, if left on my own, riffle through every old box of books I see at the outdoor flea market here, spend hours in ideal book leafing, smelling, searching. The very best books are the ones I find that a previous reader wrote in the margins. Then, I have two stories in one book.

I’m so amazed at what I find, being sold for a song. I tote home (to my husband’s dismay) worn musty books to treasure. At his expected question, why? I answer with my thin, shabby answers: It’s Bambi, I loved it as a girl and now I have a copy. I’ve wanted to find this, I grew up on it. It goes with one I found last year and I must have the whole set.

I got the affliction from my father and I blame him, too. What can my husband say? He knows the soft achy part of my heart that’s missed my father, too long. There was always a second hand book place on my bed. Some book I fell in love with from the library, a poem book he thought I’d love. He haunted used book stores on his lunch hours.

When I was crazy about Rod McKuen and everything he wrote, he brought home Sonnets from the Portuguese and Emily Dickinson Love Poems. I never figured out if he was trying to pull me away from what he considered bad choices with ‘newfangled thinking or poetry style. He was from the school of Victorian poetry and did not appreciate free verse too much.

Whereas, though I studied and wrote traditional poetry, I embraced free verse, simply loved it. Even now that is my favorite, especially free verse that rhymes in unexpected places and ways.

Which brings me to a reminder: It is poetry month and Thursday is Poem in your Pocket Day. Celebrate National Poem in Your Pocket Day if you celebrate National Poetry Month no other way. Pick a poem, pocket it and carry it around with you all day, reread it or share it with others. Put a poem somewhere to be found.

Better yet, celebrate the month, buy a poem book and open it carefully, smell the newness, turn a few pages, slid your hand over the page crease, season that book, then enjoy

Thank Yous

In the September issue of Writer’s Digest, Sherman Alexie suggests we thank an author when we read a piece of theirs that we love. In the Nov./Dec. issue, M. Claudette Sandecki mentions this, too and says she thinks of it as ‘insurance' that more of similar work from the author will make its way to her.

It’s a great idea. A writer’s life is isolating. All of us wonder, sometimes if we connect with our readers. A simple note, offered to the writer telling them what we enjoyed.

I think it can go deeper than that. Everyone likes to know they’re doing a good job. It gives a lift to the trudge of everyday and helps maintain the work. I’d do it to a great waiter, a thoughtful hairdresser. (And throw in a tip.) It’s a way to connect to the writer, expecting nothing but wanting only to show appreciation for the enjoyment I got.

It’s such a simple thing to do with e-mail, Twitter, and Facebook, so available.

Give a writer a gift this holiday.

Perfect: Open Country

One of the best parts about vacationing is the opportunity to read. somewhat, uninterrupted. Some books, I don’t care, or I, even, end up hoping for interruption. Not that the book isn’t good, just sometimes, I need or want to break away. Rarely, at least for a good long while, have I found a book that’s made me want to sit up all night reading.

I use to, though. When my boys were small, sometimes, in that vast wilderness of motherhood, I remember a few books, I stayed up all night reading and it was worth it in the morning. I was a railroad widow, so I was often alone for days or a week at a time. Raising boys alone.

I was lucky, as I told my boys, “I was once a little boy, too, so I know what you’re thinking.” (My middle son says this comment probably did irreparable damage to their delicate psyche.) I was a tomboy and my best friend was a boy who could think up the wildest ideas for fun. Truth is, I thought up my share, too.

We set out one summer to dig to China. Even his father helped. We didn’t make it, but by the end of summer, we had quite a hole and our mother’s were tired of vacuuming up the ton of sand we tracked into the house in hair and shoes. I don’t remember one time being bored that summer. We had to take our lunches down in the hole with us. Les’ father made us keep it wide for safety sake. Still, what an adventure.

We caught grasshoppers and cooked them in toy iron skillets to see what they tasted like, climbed trees and played Tarzan, made a giant Monopoly™ game throughout the neighborhood and charged our friends to play. We were trying to earn money to buy some pet turtles. We played cars and made roads mapping grass and sand. Played cowboys and Indians with plastic toys that I proceeded to chew all the tails and hoofs off of.

Perfect experiences to raise a family of boys, I think. Still, often, I found myself out of my element and longing for…just one touch of lace or pink. I was lucky, though. I read.

And romance novels were just beginning to go strong. Every once in a while, I’d find one book that kept me reading past midnight, past dawn. LaVyrle Spencer was my favorite writer. The writer whose book I knew would keep me up through the night. The story, the writing, the tiny details, the use of words. When she released a new book, I savored it, holding it back as reward.

Well, I have finally found a writer who can stand right next to Spencer. Proudly. And better yet, the books are Western Historical. My very first love.

I was raised on John Wayne and Clint Eastwood s*#t-kickers. That’s what you went to the movies to see, in my day. Good old westerns where right was right and a man took a problem into his own hands. And better yet, there were horses.

I love horses. When I was little, I was a horse, too. I thought I was anyway. Wished I was, but that’s another story.

I started and finished Open Country by Kari Warner, the second in Warner’s Blood Rose Trilogy on vacation. And…I loved it.

Hank’s story is perfect and Molly is perfect for him. I wondered as I read Pieces of Sky who the woman would be who would win this man’s walled off heart. She’d have to be special and Molly is. And all the things I love about reading are there, too. Great writing, searing detail, western setting, a story that is just like every man or woman’s conflict and problems. I love stories like that…like just what happens next door or in your own life. And to write like that, you have to understand the human emotions and feelings.

Warner does (and she’s a really nice lady, too). And Warner’s books remind us of those old westerns in the best way, with strong characters, rugged men and setting. I highly recommend this second in the series and I wait impatiently for Jack’s story in Chasing the Sun.

And I have another great book to recommend. Haven’t I been blessing in that department lately? My only wish is that I hadn’t bought it for my Kindle because the one drawback with the Kindle, as I’ve said before, is I can’t share my reading finds. I usually decide as I buy the book whether I’ll want to past it on or not. That determines in what format I buy it. With The Mountain Between Us by Charles Martin I chose wrong. I want to share.

I want to share with my boys and my mother, especially. The story felt so personal and close to me and there were life lessons, too.

I saw the ad for The Mountain Between Us in my Literary Guild flyer and because it was a survivor story, I was immediately interested, then I found out the setting. The Ashley National Forest. That’s where we spend a lot of our vacations. I know the place well, love it, fear it and respect it. The story was great, the details spot on. Martin described the setting to perfection. And the setting served as a character in the story. But it was the love in the story that pulled me in. It was a hard book to put down.

April's Books I Love

You may have noticed that I’ve stopped reviewing books. I struggled with that monthly blog and I’m certain it came across as borriing. There were problems with the whole thing. I hate to say anything bad about what I’ve read. Some of the writer’s are friends, some I’ve just always loved, but more importantly for me is the fact that writing a bad book is just as hard as writing a good book.

I know.

So, for several months I’ve been wrestling with the whole reviewing books thing. I mean, I don’t have a gun to my ribs, no one is telling me how to do this blog, right? It’s mine. That’s the joy of it and the healing power of it. Because, have no doubt, writing this blog several times a week has saved me in so many ways. Biggest being, it kept me writing when I barely could. That sounds so small, but it has been huge.

Why was I so intent on doing reviews on the books I read anyway? But, I seemed to be. I really had this need to do something about the books I read. For writers, I’ve always thought the books they read are as important as the books they write. And I love nothing more than to let others know about a great book. I think it is a responsibility for a reader to pass on to other readers books worth our time. And talking about books is part of the joy of reading them, don’t you think? And sharing them.

Finally, a decision came to me in the middle of the night, as so many things do. I will only write about the books I truly love. The others don’t matter. If a friend were to ask me about a good book that I’d read recently, what book would I mention? That’s what matters. That’s what I truly wanted to share on my blog.

Last month there were two such books: One Good Dog by Susan Wilson. This is about second chances and living a life worth living. I’ve always been a sucker for animal books and this book was intelligent and uplifting. Not quite as good as The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein, but darn close and with the same little kernels of wisdom.

And A Homemade Life: stories and recipes from my kitchen table, by Molly Wizenberg (the creator of Orangette). Another passion of mine is cookbooks. I love them. I read them like novels. My favorite cookbooks are wards or organizations spiral bound fund raiser type books filled with everyday recipes. It’s the one thing I can rarely pass up at yard sales, antique shops and flea markets. Best yet, are cookbooks with tons of personal notes in the margins. It’s like reading a secret memoir, a tiny window in someone’s life, a story. And I love story I find there.

In A Homemade Life, you get stories, wonderful, personal stories. Wide-open windows into Wizenberg’s life, like chucked full margins of notes. Even better are the luscious, yummy-sounding recipes. Most recipes sound gourmet and beyond the everyday, simple home-cooking I do, but intriguing.

I think I’ve mentioned in this blog before my love for cooking. I’ve always cooked even when I was young. As a busy mother and wife it often became only a necessary task, but there have always been huge aspects of cooking that speak to me. Baking, I’ve learned is a wonderful stress-reliever and I learned after I was sick, chopping vegetables was very therapeutic.

Wizenberg is a fine writer. Each recipe’s story so well written that you can almost smell and taste the food. Long after I finished the book I thought about the stories and the recipes. Many would be difficult to make or even talk my husband into trying, but oh, how I’d love to taste each recipe.

One particular has been put on my to-be-tried list: Slow-roasted Tomatoes with Coriander because come July and August I have no doubt there will be an abundance of tomatoes from my garden due to a kind of snafu.

The weather has been just beastly. No, that isn’t even accurate. The weather has been Heckle and Jeckle. One day spring, next day winter. Hard to do gardening in that sort of situation but my husband and I sallied forth and planted cabbage, broccoli, lettuce, spinach, chard, scallions, radish and tomatoes. Four tomatoes: two Juliettes' ( We love this variety of grape tomatoes. They look like little Romas. They’re so sweet and last forever on the counter) and two Early Girls. We carefully put hot caps on, too. But the poor things froze even under those hot caps, so back to the nursery I went. When we finally got around to replacing them in the ground, weeks later, the original tomatoes had developed tiny, new growth.

After all, that I couldn’t bear to kill the tough little things and tear them from the ground. I have eight tomatoes looking pretty healthy. I’m going to need to do some slow-roasting and freezing, don’t you think?

And that’s just fine, too, because nothing’s better than a pint of roasted tomatoes added to the spaghetti sauce recipe I had to develop because of my low-sodium restriction.

Toni’s Spaghetti Sauce
1 onion, chopped
1-2 garlic cloves, minced
2 (8oz.) cans tomato sauce
1 (6oz.) can tomato paste
1 pint of frozen roasted tomatoes (or fresh roasted tomatoes)
1 teaspoon of sugar or 1 carrot
¾ teaspoon of Italian seasoning or your favorite combination of oregano, basil, rosemary, thyme, sage, marjoram (If you use fresh herbs and that wonderful, use about twice that amount or to suit your taste)
1 tablespoon parsley flakes or 2 chopped fresh
1 lb. lean ground beef or chicken or turkey

Brown ground meat over medium heat until all red is gone. You can salt and pepper the meat while it’s cooking, but I only use pepper. Drain. Add onion and garlic and cook until transparent. Add tomato sauce, tomato paste, roasted tomatoes. Stir in seasoning and reduce heat. Simmer for 30 minutes. Cook pasta while simmering. 4-6 servings.

The Kindle

I’ve been reading and hearing how important it is to use the latest forms of communication in order to have a ‘platform’, get our names known, promote our work and do research. Technology has made so much information and communication right at our fingertips. Our phones do almost everything now. And I’ll admit I love new technology. All the new gadgets fascinate me, even when I don’t understand them or can see no need for them.

Yes, there’s a big but coming. But…I still like the simple, low-tech way of doing things, too. And I’ve decided it has its place and value. Let’s not forget them.

I bought a Kindle over a year ago. I was planning to do a product evaluation, but I’ve hesitated a long time trying to decide if I like, love, or hate the thing. There’s so much I like that the things I don’t like seem kind of petty, but still they take away from the joy of my reading and reading is one of my most heart-felt joys. At one time reading was my only joy. It is so close to who I am. It is so entwined with that I can’t explain exactly what I mean. It is a secret about me that for years most who knew me wouldn’t know how important or how much I read. It is the thing some know about me that defined me. I have always read tons.

Reading is more than just the act of reading for me. It is this crazy, obsessive love of mine for books. Old books, all musty and dog-eared with writing in the margins, new books, crisp and new, for me to open first. I am a bibliophile of the first order. Nothing can pull me into a flea market stall faster than a big box of old books with burgundy, green and navy spines and creamy pages. You see, for me it is not just the reading, it’s the touching, thumbing through and the owning.

But…as you can imagine that kind of obsession causes a big space problem. The Kindle seemed a solution of sorts. I could buy (cheaper) new books (tons) stored in one book-like item. I could carry that library with me, a very tempting thought when I’m looking at a retired husband wanting to travel some. The Kindle does all that.

It lets you make the font as large as necessary so you don’t have to use your glasses. It lets you take notes, too, though, for me, taking notes this way, without writing in margins, without writing down and filling notebooks (I think another obsession) isn’t as satisfying. The books are generally cheaper, although, that is about to change a bit, which though not Amazon’s fault really, frustrating because one of the great selling points for me was newly released hardbacks at only $9.99. On that point, I was expecting the price raise. It’s just disappointing.

Yet, on that point, also, the book wars (among other things) has changed much in the industry and after all, I want to work in the industry. My take on the whole thing was that anything that gave more people a chance to own and read books ended up helping the industry as a whole. Not without growing pains, but helping.

Another thing that frustrates me about the Kindle, and I’ll admit it seems dumb, and maybe, it comes from writing novels, but I just hate that I can’t know how many are pages left, or how many I’ve read. There is a little think on the bottom of the page that shows you with dots about where you are in the book, but I’d like a way to know the page number I’m on out of the page number there is. Even with the change of font, I would think the technology would be there to do that.

I read in the tub. Nothing is better after a hard, long day to have a nice warm bath laced with lavender and a good book. Looking at the Kindle, it seemed to me that it would be as easy to read in the bath as a book. It’s not. I haven’t figured out why yet, but part of it is because it isn’t as comfortable in the hand.

February Reads:

The Writer’s Portable Therapist by Rachel Ballen P.H.D. : There is so much help in this book. Encouragement, inspiration, suggested writing exercises, quotes, contemplations. It is a book I'll keep close and refer to often. It covers every writing quirk I know of and gives sound, make-sense action to take. Try it.

Rewriting Monday by Jodi Thomas: Pepper Malone moves to Bailey, Texas to hide out from a former lover whose family wants her dead. She just wants to get by, write for the newspaper in town, owned by Mike McColloch, and stay alive. But that grows harder when the newspaper is targeted by someone with a grudge against the newspaper. Things get more complicated than Pepper wants when she is drawn to the newspaper’s owner.

I liked this book. I’ve read most of Thomas’s books. I like her writing. Mostly, she writes western historical. I was worried (I always worry for two reasons. I hate to see a good historical writer leave that genre because I’m finding so little in that line anymore, and often ,the things I like about the writer’s writing doesn’t seem to translate to the new genre) that she wouldn’t be as good writing contemporary, but she proved she handles it with as much skill and a lot of humor. And it is not strained humor, but low-key humor that sprouts naturally from the character. I enjoyed this book very much

Pieces of Sky by Kaki Warner: I’ve praised this book on my blog right after reading it. I am waiting anxiously for the next book, hoping it arrives just before vacation, so I can spend more time reading. Maybe, I’ll be able to read it straight through.

This book had everything I love about western historical: details of the old west, strong characters, fight for survival, outlaws to hate, western scenery I love, a heroine to root for, a hero to fall in love with, excellent writing, dialogue that was sharp and interesting, description that was simply perfect. Kaki Warner is my new favorite writer. And the best part: it was a nice big book.

Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout: There were thirteen short stories, each linked by Olive Kitteridge, a junior high-school teacher. It’s a story of an ordinary life and the many ways that life changes, touches others, helps and hurts those around that life. Each snippet of this woman’s life has this bittersweet touch, this truth that hits you as gentle as a reflex hammer. I experienced an actual jerk of awareness and sometimes memory. It had so much emotion of everyday life I recognized that sometimes it hurt to read, but it was uplifting and revealing and you will not forget what you read.

January 2010 Reads:

Oh, how welcome the sun is. Grass is visible beneath the walnut trees and the birds: House Sparrows, Dark-eyed Juncos, Black-capped Chickadees, Northern Flickers, Black-billed Magpies and Blue Jays have found the banquet beneath The House Finch haven’t showed up yet, but I don’t think they’re far behind. It spurred me on to get busy finding another birdhouse for the front of the house. We got so much joy watching the Chickadees and House Finch last year in the houses we provided. Better than anything on TV.

Sadly, another little Junco must have hit our window despite the clingies I place in the big picture window and died. I’ve put up more and hope it will help.

Soul Surfer by Bethany Hamilton: I’ve been intrigued with this gal since her story hit the news. A young girl, looking like the very definition of a surfer girl attacked by shark. But this slim, young girl had courage and faith and I wanted to know where she got it.

I’ve thought of her often over the years. If she can go on, then I can certainly keep writing no matter how many rejections, can’t I? If she can go back into the water, so can I, right? And when I got sick, I thought of her even more often. How had she kept her faith? How had she ever thought she could surf again? However she did it, I want some. I wanted the whole story and this book, written by her answered my questions. Written in her voice, a great voice, of a young, girl with her whole life ahead and she wasn’t about to let this get her down.

Early Dawn by Catherine Anderson: I have loved Catherine Anderson since I read Keegan’s Lady. This was a sequel to that book she wrote so many years ago. It was too long a wait. I so miss the Western Historical Romances. And this didn’t disappoint.

Eden Paxton is a lot tougher than she looks. When desperate outlaws kidnap her, she determines to survive. Matthew Coulter is just as determined to find these same outlaws, the Sebastions. They killed his wife and unborn child and he would ride to hell to get them. It was his bad luck to find them with a captive he’d have to rescue. But rescue her; he would, even if it delayed the vengeance he'd waited so long to deliver.

A fun read. Great dialogue.

Pursuit by Karen Robards: I like Robards. Her books are always edge-of-seat reads. This one was even better because it had been so long since I’d read her.

Jessica Ford survives a fiery car crash while she was in the process of trying to get the first lady safely and quietly home without public incident. When she wakes in the hospital, she can’t remember anything, but she feels anxious and suspicious of everyone. Can she trust Secret Service man, Mark Ryan? She’ll soon find out as they end up running for their lives.

Running Hot by Jayne Ann Krentz: I’m a Krentz fan, though I have to admit I like her most when she is writing as Amanda Quick. For some reason, I didn’t like this book as much other Krentz Arcane Society books.

Grace Renquist is sent on a simple in and out mission with Luther Malone as her bodyguard. Both characters have tons of emotional baggage and there were many reasons for the two to be what the other needed, but I never did feel the sparks fly. It just seemed to fall flat. In defense of Krentz though, her writing is still great, dialogue wonderful. I think the failure was with my inability to suspend belief.

Juicy Pens, Thirsty Paper by Sark: Great book to get the writing juices flowing. Great prompt ideas and inspirations, too. Worth the time.

December Reads and Movies:

The Christmas Dog by Melody Carlson: A predictable story, but the writing and characters make it a perfect story for Christmas. I saw the book at a Sam’s Club and needing a little Christmas spirit, I bought it. It’s a story of a widow having a tough time getting her own Christmas spirit up to snuff. She has no giant problem. She’s just lonely, put out by what she views as a collapse of the neighborhood’s friendship and closeness. And it doesn’t when someone moves into the house directly behind her who does seem to care if he’s contributing to the change. It takes a little stray dog to show that things aren’t always what they seem.

This was a quiet, sweet book. I can see it made into a Hallmark program. Has a good message and worth my time.

Lavender Morning by Jude Deveraux: I’ve read Deveraux for years. She always does a great job with her characters. In Lavender Morning, Edilean Harcourt wills all her possessions to Jocelyn Minton, a young neighbor she befriended. One of the possessions was an eighteenth-century house in the small Virginia town of Edilean. That the town has the same name as her friend; is only one of the mysteries Jocelyn uncovers when she moves into the old house. As Jocelyn pieces together Miss Edi’s past, she finds her own history, future, and love.

In general, I enjoyed this read, owing much to the writing of Deveraux, but truthfully, none of them hold a candle to her earliest work, in my opinion. That may be due to my preference for historical, rather than contemporary. In any case, a decent read.

Slow Burn by Julie Garwood: Bombs keep going off around Kate MacKenna and Dylan Buchanan, her best friend, Jordan’s brother, wants to get to the bottom of why. He can’t admit he has noticed her for years and she is in no position for romance. This makes for a great story with a lot of great dialogue. I love good dialogue. It can make a so-so book, great in my opinion. But this book is better than so-so to begin with.

The Help by Kathryn Stockett: Advised by a New York editor to ‘hone your writing by writing what disturbs you,’ Skeeter Phelan begins a daring project during the earliest rumblings of the civil rights movement. In the early 1960’s there was a line between the black women the country club set hires to clean and help raise their children. Skeeter Phelan starts collecting the stories of those black women. Stories that are sad, shocking and sometimes cruel but that give the black community pride and the small glimmer of hope. Skeeter has to cross life-long held rules to follow her dream.


I loved this book. It was so far outside what I know, but I watched during the civil rights movement with horror and yet, I know nothing of what it was to be black in the south. Do I know now, after reading this book? I doubt it. There are too many little tiny nuances I will never understand. I only know I understand a very tiny bit better. I don’t live in the south; I know only a handful of black women or men. I just know that I was proud of the black women that peopled this book, and Skeeter, who took a stand in the only way she saw clear to do. I was moved. I think that’s a great quality for a book. I was changed.

Above all, I loved the characters. They seemed so true, their voices so clear, it was as if I met them. I think that is the greatest quality for a writer to have. A true, clear voice. There were many voices in The Help, all different, all very real to me.

Movies:
The Road: I read the book quite some time ago, but it haunted me for weeks after. Some of it haunted me because it seemed so close to a reoccurring dream I had right after my mother’s diagnosis with breast cancer. The scenes in my dreams were right out of the book, though I had the dreams two years before I read the book. And, as a parent, the emotions tied up with trying to keep your child alive haunted me. I beg my kids to read it, to help me understand some of it. Only one took me up on it. He had to see the film. We went together.

It is not a feel good film. Out during the holidays, I’m not sure how good it will do, but it is just as haunting. Cormac McCarthy’s writing was wonderful and I wondered how that would translate to film. The images burned into my mind as strongly as those in the book. The film haunted me, too. I cannot forget the story, the emotions. Every parent can relate to this desperate man. In the end, he had taught his child what he thought would prepare him for the world and then, in the end, it is in the child’s hands. A thought-provoking movie. I’m glad I didn’t miss it, even if it was sometimes hard to watch.

Avatar: Yes, everything you’ve heard about this movie is true. It is visually stunning, there was a message but not overly done. I think I fell a little in love with these big blue people. In fact, they seemed so ‘real’ that it was almost disorienting when the movie was finished that we wouldn’t be meeting them around some corner.



The story/plot was simple and probably a little predictable but that didn’t distract at all. My one complaint was about dialogue. It was a break-through in so many areas, special effects, set design, the way it was filmed; it deserves to be in the same class as Star Wars and Aliens, but for dialogue. I don’t see any of the dialogue being part of our cultural literacy. Too bad, too. I think there was plenty of chance for that.

November Reads:

Homer’s Odyssey by Gwen Cooper: This is a true story about a blind kitten that Gwen Cooper adopts with some reluctance. She already had two cats, a broken heart and financial trouble. But once she meets Homer, she senses how special the cat is. And he is.

The story of this amazing cat is well crafted and well written and when Cooper talks about the aftermath of 9/11 from the point of view of a resident of New York and a pet owner, I am so invested in the situation I can’t put the book down. As an animal lover, this is my worst nightmare, really. Of course, it is people first, but the thoughts of those poor animals in that area of New York, not understanding what is going on, where their humans are is wrenching.

So, the book was a good-read, but also, it made me think a bit more about what to do, what to have in place in the event of disaster and that I need to be prepared for my pets, too.

Wicked All Day by Liz Carlyle: I’ve been a fan of Liz Carlyle since her first book. Her books are rich in detail, her dialogue always makes me smile, her characters are finely drawn. This story about the unmarriageable Zoë Armstrong and Stuart Rowland, Marques of Mercer didn’t quite meet my expectations.

Stuart’s brother does the unthinkable by compromising Zoë and the two become engaged, though they only love each other as brother and sister. It just seems as if no own acts honorably in the end. At the end of the frolic, I felt a little flat. Oh, the dialogue was still there, as was the well-drawn characters, but the story didn’t spark my interest much.

Between Sisters by Kristin Hannah: Meghan and Claire have had a tough childhood, living through a dysfunctional family. This is a story about the disappointments that comes with love and family. It’s also a story of how two sisters work their way back to each other. The characters are pitch-perfect. Watching each sister grow, forgive and struggle to be there for each other was a journey all sisters should make. It explores that sometimes tough, sweet, complicated and tender emotion of sisters.

Firefly Lane by Kristin Hannah: As Between Sisters was a story about sisters; Firefly Lane is a story about best friends. In fact, to me this book was a wonderful love letter to friendship. I don’t believe Hannah could have written such a book without knowing how it feels to be a friend and have a friend.

This book shows it all: the jealousy, the backstabbing, the unconditional support, the decades flying by, the growing up, growing apart and the coming back together.

Tully and Kate form their friendship during the tough middle school age, what better time to find a best friend forever. Despite the differences in their upbringing, they hold onto that friendship through things that would shatter most. Different life choices and betrayal make the friendship more than rock during the years but always they hold onto each other.

The book was well written as is expected of Hannah, but what I took from the book was the examination of what friendship truly is. I mourn that more of us don’t have this kind of friend to go into our later tough years with. Those of us that do ought to send a note of gratitude to our friends the minute we finish this book. It is a rare commodity and we need to cherish it.
I would like my sister, my daughters-in-laws, my friends to read Firefly Lane and to value the friendships they have.

Books

The greatest gift is the passion for reading. It is cheap, it consoles, it distracts, it excites.
-Elizabeth Hardwick

I was lucky. My parents read to me. Reading was not only encouraged, but also expected. Books were a priority, as were trips to the library.

And so, the sight of old books takes me back to my childhood. What is the one thing I can’t walk past at swap meets and antique fairs? Old books. Books with titles I grew up with, I consumed. Book that were my best friends.

I spent years trying to find an old set of The Junior Classics published by P.F. Collier and Son, copyright 1912. It is one of my most precious possessions. It took me over thirty years to find the set. It cost me $41.98 and worth every penny and hour of searching.

There has always been something addictive about old musty books—the mellow hard covers, the dog-eared, cream-colored pages, that well loved smell. Old books look lived in. They make a house, home to me. And nothing is better than finding an old book with writing in the margins. Like a subplot, those words tell me another story.

I have truly tried to control my addiction. I try to thin out my bookcases (I mean bookcases, not one but many) every now and then. It’s painful. How can I bring in more books when my bookcases are full? How do you toss my father’s copy of Miracle on 34th Street, (first edition), Best Stories of O’Henry, History and Rhymes of the Lost Battalion, or my mother’s College Typewriting (third edition), set of Heart Throbs (National Magazine, copyright 1905), my childhood’s Bambi and Bambi’s Children, My Friend Flicka, Black Stallion (all found at a swap meet as siblings have original).

I love a good story. I don’t care what media it comes to me: movie, book, music, poem. As you can imagine my office is stuffed with books, old and new. It is a love, a passion, an addiction. Read to a child—for them, for yourself. Read to them from your old, well-loved books. Start an addiction.

August Reads

A Duke of Her Own by Eloisa James: Trying to decide between passion and what’s best, Duke of Villiers must choose between smart, beautiful Eleanor and Lisette rumored to be mad.
The book has everything: passion, impropriety and a duel. It’s a fun read.

Bridegroom by Linda Lael Miller: Miller is one of the few writers still doing Western Historicals and doing it well. This is my favorite genre and I mourn the absence of more in the bookstores.

Bridegroom revisits Gideon Yarbo last seen in A Wanted Man and his childhood friend Lydia Fairmont. Gideon is now an undercover detective on a tricky assignment when he receives a letter from Lydia asking for help. Another fun read.

The Poet’s Companion by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux: This book was the text we used in the Poetic Passion Workshop. As we didn’t read the whole book for the class, I did. The book is a must if you want to write poetry well. Best of all are the assignments. I think you could spend a whole year going through each assignment and in the end; you would be so much the better poet. I highly recommend this guide.

Woven on the Wind edited by Linda Hasselstrom, Gaydell Collier, and Nancy Curtis: This another book edited by these three woman that haunts me, takes my breath and quilts my heart with the whole of it. Essay by essay, poem by poem this weaves through my heart. This book is about friendship of women in the Sagebrush West.

I would like for every woman I know to read all three of these books: Leaning into the Wind, Woven on the Wind, and Crazy Woman Creek. Why? Because the books are like the best sleepover with best life friends. There is crying, laughing, healing and nostalgia through the pages of these books. I just can’t say enough other than to say how glad I am I found them this last two years. I needed them and they delivered.

The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion: Another great book. I’ve wanted to read this book for quite some time. When I saw it for sale at the swap meet for a quarter, there was no reason not to buy it.

The book is mentioned many times in the books I’ve read on how to write memoirs and by Michael J. Fox in his memoir. I know why.

Mostly, the book is about grief-how grief unfolds, how it affects even the strongest people. Didion doesn’t come out and give advice but I don’t think I will ever grieve again without thinking about this book. And I’m not just talking only about grieving the loss of a loved one.

There are so many things to grieve, so many things we lose along life’s road. I think that is why Fox mentioned this book. A devastating illness is a loss that must be grieved in order to grasp hope and move past it. And that is the thing about Didion, though she paints grief with a sharp pen there is no self-pity. She just lays out the facts until you know grieve almost intimately. Lovely book.

May Reads

Just Breathe by Susan Wiggs: I’ve been reading Susan Wiggs for years and have always enjoyed her books. Just Breathe was especially good. The protagonist, Sarah Moon, has a wonderful wit and writes a syndicated comic strip but some things just aren’t funny. Like her husband’s infidelity. As Sarah Moon navigates through a shattered marriage, pregnancy she keeps her humor. I love how Wiggs write about family, friends and all the gritty parts of life. Her characters are wonderful and so real. I recommend this book but with a warning to have tissues close at hand.

Death Angel by Linda Howard: I started reading Linda Howard with her first book, A Lady of the West. That book and Angel Creek are two of my favorite Western Historical. I wish she still wrote them, but she writes whatever she puts her pen to so beautifully, I can’t complain. This was a surprise though. The protagonist Drea Rousseau begins as a not so lovable, opportunist, but right quick I started rooting for her. I think that speaks to Howards carefully crafted characters. When Drea decides to ditch her boyfriend, a drug lord, Rafael Salinas she stirs up his anger. He’s not going to let that go and sends a hit man after her. This book is dark and intriguing but also about second chances.

If I Could Speak In Silk by Judy Johns: I met Judy Johns in a novel writing class. I loved her writing. She wrote descriptive, edgy, funny scenes. I always wanted more of everything I read of hers. She also won every writing contest I ever competed in and deserved to. Her writing was just good. When I heard she’d had a poem book published I had to have it. I loved it the first time I read it, but even more so this time. I read If I Could Speak In Silk again as I’ve been making a point to read poetry every day and I remembered how much I liked this book.
The rereading did not disappoint. And I feel a little extra joy opening the first page and seeing her note and signature. Johns writing is sparse and potent. Each poem read makes my heart feel cradled in her hands. She has insight and humor. Her poems are personal, yet universal. All reasons why I love her.

Family Honor by Robert Parker: Parker is always good. In this first ‘Sonny’ book he’s great. The dialogue, which is my favorite thing about Parker’s writing, is as good as always and Sonny is a lovable protagonist, smart, honest and good. If you like Parker and good mysteries, this series is a good bet.

The Art and Craft of Poetry by Michael J. Bugeja: I bought this book because it is the book used in Writer’s Digest’s Poetry Workshop. I wanted to read through it and study the book in preparation to taking the workshop. This is a guidebook through the journey of writing and reading poetry. Helpful, practical advice fills the pages. Bugeja has tricks and suggestions to improve your poetry and includes wonderful examples. I think this book should be in every poet’s reference library. For me the best part was the chapter on generating ideas for poetry.

Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man by Steve Harvey. I enjoyed not only the humor but the spot on advice about how a man thinks. This is a book I would recommend to women in the dating world. I read it out of curiosity and I can see how some of this information would have helped.

April Reads

Every Breath You Take by Judith McNaught: I’ve been a fan of Judith McNaught since her book Whitney, My Love. This story was about Kate Donovan a Chicago restaurateur, and Mitchell Wyatt a wealthy businessman. McNaught is wonderful at characterization. A good romantic suspense.

A Lion Called Christian by Anthony Bourke and John Randall: Almost everyone has seen either on YouTube in 2008 or on the news the story of Christian the Lion. This book was originally published in 1971. It’s been revised and updated. So much has changed since them about the way we look and understand animals and the way the world works. Think about just how these two men got this lion-a department story for Blue’s sake. The story is very touching. The lion endearing, but for me the contrast between the way we look at animals now, compared to that time is both encouraging and depressing. We’ve come so far, but lost so much.

Anyway, I have always loved books about animals and had the best of that genre.

Blue Smoke and Murder by Elizabeth Lowell: I’ve been looking for an Elizabeth Lowell book for some time. It seemed to me as if it’s been too long, or, at least, longer than usual since a new one has hit the book shelves. This was typical for Lowell. Jill Breck saves the life of the son of two of St. Kilda Consulting’s operators. Soon after her great aunt is killed in a suspicious fire and Jill finds herself in the middle of a mystery.

The St. Kilda Consulting operators jump in to help Jill, sending Zach Balfour to help Jill with the dangers Jill’s been pushed into. Fine mystery.

The Third Circle by Amanda Quick: I just like the Amanda Quick books. Love her dialogue, her push-pull of the relationships Quick creates, love her characters. The character’s Quick creates are always intelligent, witty, and sexy. This story, a new Arcane Society novel, is about Leona Hewitt, a woman with a gift to work crystals and Thaddeus Ware a mesmerist and member of the secretive Arcane Society. Mystery, romance and face-paced, this story grabs you and keeps you reading.

Writing Life Stories, How to Make Memories into Memoirs, ideas into Essays, and Life into Literature by Bill Roorbach: This book inspired me. Originally, I started reading it and treating it as a workshop for writing my memoirs about the last several years—my mother’s breast cancer, my time as her primary caregiver and my own illness-MPGN.

At the time I was struggling to write anything and feeling the loss of not writing so profoundly, I was desperate to find anything to write. As I got more and more deeply into this book, I began writing everything–short stories, poems, essays(not novels, I couldn’t wrap my mind around all the pieces of a novel that you have to juggle and keep track of. It was just too big, overwhelming for me. In the middle of being sickest, overwhelmed was such a constant feeling I couldn’t deal with any more of it. Sadly, I still haven’t tried to tackle anything to do with a novel-Not a new one, not any of the old ones, not editing, not even re-reading them.)

Roorbach gives wonderful prompts, great encouragement and great ideas. His down to earth way is just the friend a writer needs-supportive, but not about to let you off the hook.

New and Selected Poems by Mary Oliver: I’ve tried to read a few poems each day for the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month. I picked Mary Oliver’s New and Selected Poems because I enjoyed other poem books by her. I like her emphasis and use of nature. She has a unique way of looking at things and saying things. I wanted to read poetry to inspire my own poems and this did. Still, I must say and to my surprise the book that has haunted me, made me excited to write poetry again and to seek out more of the same is Leaning into the Wind, Women Writing From the Heart of the West, edited by Linda Hasselstrom, Gaydell Collier and Nancy Curtis. I am still haunted by those poems and stories.

Reading

My first memories are tied up with poetry. Poetry was a staple my parents read at bedtime. Walt Whitman was my father’s favorite.

My mother was more diverse, eclectic. Most often she read from our set of Junior Classics; The Young Folks Shelf of Books, Volume Ten, Poems, Guide and Indexes or Heart Throbs. I've mentioned these before: The Duel, Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, The Shut-eye Train by Eugene Field, The Owl and the Pussy-cat by Edward Lear, Little Orphant Annie by James Whitcomb Riley, The Spider and the Fly by Mary Howitt were standard fare. And then there was Poe’s, The Raven.

After I married and started my family, my writing and reading changed. Between short stories, essays and novels I still managed to write a little poetry, but rarely read it. Never enough time. Instead, I concentrated on romance novels, my time better spent reading what I wrote. Time was hard won and rare in those days. Still, I finished nine novels, many short stories and essays, even some poetry. I had small successes, too.

Finally and again, I’ve wanted to take a poetry workshop. Scheduling was the first difficulty I ran into. Then money, but eventually I had saved enough for an online workshop. MPGN hit.

Anger and self-pity swamped me. You know the old—why me, mentality. That is until that (sane?) voice (probably the same one that does my editing) whispered—Why not? You think you’re too good to get problems? You think everyone else is supposed to do the suffering? You have had it good, you know. Is this really not your turn?

After a good self scruff-of-the-neck shake and talking to, I stopped feeling sorry for myself (for the most part) and put my energy into getting better. As I began to recover, my desire to write grew. Yet, (as I’ve mentioned before and probably too often) my mind didn’t follow. Whether it was medication or illness, I don’t know. I only kn0w I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t get my thoughts to make sense. Worse, it seemed I couldn’t get them from my mind to my fingers and onto the screen. I floundered and worried. Grieved and persisted. (Too hard, I think.)

Often, I would wake up hunched over my desk, the whole morning gone, the computer on screen saver and my thoughts lost. Other times I would have dozens of beginning thoughts and no follow through. It wasn’t the time for any kind of writing workshop, much less a poetry workshop.

I fee; poetry takes more concentration and thought than other forms of writing. Also, it takes freer, maybe even, wilder thinking. I just didn’t have it in me. I felt mostly vulnerable, lost and unsure, unable to make the simplest decisions or choices.

My health improved. I worked on a memoir (whether for therapy, or for publication, or just to have a hand in writing something. Who know yet?) using my own knocked together ‘workshop.’ I was afraid my mind wasn’t sharp enough take a class, any class. Certainly, not poetry.

I picked two books for a memoir ‘workshop,’ of sorts: Writing Out the Storm by Barbara Abercrombie and Writing Life Stories by Bill Roorbach. Diligently I worked through both books simultaneously, page by page.

One of the assignments mentioned in both books was to read memoirs. I followed the advice. It helped immensely as I took notes and made rough outlines for my memoir. Reading other memoirs kick started my mind, held out a carrot for my foggy mind. A blind guide, a map for my own terrain. Something I needed. More than I even knew.

It was a way back to my writing. I needed that.

As I try to renew my poetry writing now, I’m using that same assignment for my poetry writing. I’m revisiting the joy of reading poetry again. I’m getting better. The fogginess has left. I can concentrate much better, but as I slowly come off prednisone I’m uncertain how that might affect me. So, I’ve cobbled together my own poetry workshop, using two good poetry instruction books: The Mind’s Eye by Kevin Clark and The Art and Craft of Poetry by Michael Bugeja.

More importantly, I’ve began to read poetry again. What an experience, a joy. I’m finding new poets I love and rediscovering old poets: Mary Oliver, James Applewhite, Jewel, and Taylor Swift (I know she is a lyricist but her songs are poetic. I love her little twists, her slant rhymes, etc. I actually read a lot of lyrics. Try it.)And, of course, Rod McKuen. I subscribe to Poetry Magazine and 32 Poems Poetry magazine so I can read my contemporaries. By the way, visit the Poetry Foundation website, too.

Read. Read what you write. Read something different. Read what inspires you. Read.

What I'm Reading/Watching (February)

On Getting Older for the First Time, by Peg Bracken: Like all Bracken’s other books this not only hits the nail on the head about aging but makes you laugh until you cry. For her wit, honesty, I love her. Always have, but the relevance, even today, I marvel at. Nostalgic, tongue in cheek, perspective.

Writing Out the Storm by Barbara Abercrombie: I loved this book. I bought it as a guide for me in writing a memoir about my illness (MPGN). I was having real difficulty writing at all. When I first got sick I wasn’t in any condition to write and I missed it, grieved it. Worse, my mind churned like a windmill through ideas and thoughts at breakneck speed but wouldn’t slow long enough for me to even think about putting the stuff on paper had I been able. Once I started feeling better, I would sit at my desk anxious to ‘catch’ up only to wake up an hour later with my face on the desk in a pool of drool. (Attractive picture, but honestly I’ve never been so embarrassed and thankful I work alone) This book held my hand.

Abercrombie and the students she writes about had much more serious diseases and they wrote—wonderful words, memoirs, guides for all of us. I saw I wouldn’t lose my writing unless I let it go. I hung on by reading this book and trying to do the exercises. I hung on by gathering faith from this book. More important I think this book could help any writer.

Star Bright by Catherine Anderson: I have always like Anderson’s books. She always finds a way to touch my heart and show the good of people. This is the story about Rainie Hall running from a brutal husband. She takes on a new identity in a new place and finds friendship and love.

The Wild Girl by Jim Fergus: I enjoyed this book. It was a bit different, but well written. This is the story of Ned Giles, who joins the Great Apache Expedition of 1932, in Arizona, searching for a boy who was kidnapped. The Expedition finds a wild Apache girl, jailed in Mexico and decides to use her to trade for the boy.

Jesse Stone: Thin Ice(TV): Rare opportunity to watch a good made for TV show. There just aren't any being made and this was well done. Did Robert Parker's book justice and was the best part of TV that I've watched for a good long time. I was happy to see that according to the Associated Press there was a large audience, too. I wish that would translate in to more of the same, but I doubt it.

Reading 2 (Rod McKuen)

I started writing poetry in earnest in junior high. As I became more interested in the romantic poets my father would leave poem books on my bed: Emily Dickinson Love Poems and the Sonnets from the Portuguese are among my most cherished.

Shy, I rarely let anyone read my work, but at sixteen, I let a dear friend read some of my poetry. I waited for his reaction with heart held high and a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. He looked at me for the longest time before finally saying, “TiGi, you have to read this guy, listen to him, too. Rod McKuen and his The Earth, The Sea and The Sky series. You got to. Your writing reminds me of him.”

Well, I found The Sea and Home to the Sea and fell in love with the words, the poetry. It was a love affair that I held onto through the rest of my high school days. And they were angst-filled days-teenage angst of heart-break and growing pains, but worse too. My father died my senior year and for some time I had a real hard time finding my equilibrium. But McKuen’s poetry was always there for me. Whenever I cross paths with my friend I still thank him for Rod McKuen.

Soon after graduation I married. We were so broke even the thought of buying books wasn’t in our budget, Desperate, I cut coupons and use the money for books, especially McKuen’s latest.

It wasn’t long before I found myself in the red clay desert of motherhood, a breathtaking, beautiful, but fragile place, as alien as another planet sometimes. I always tried to find McKuen’s books but it wasn’t easy, then along the way I lost a lot of things. (Like myself.) No, not lost, but forgot things in the detritus of three kids, diapers, car pools, and life.

Every once in a while I would wonder what had happened to McKuen, but with little time and resources I didn’t pursue it until a few years ago. Going through my bookshelves one day I pulled down Listen to the Warm and reread the poetry that had carried me through my teenage and early married years. I fell in love with his poetry all over again. And was reminded of the person I use to be, who I still am. With the new research tool- the internet, I found A Safe Place to Land.

Low and behold, there was McKuen with new poems and old, like an old friend. The rereading of these poems has refreshed me; reminded me of the girl I was, given me back something lost in the absence of reading poetry. It’s opened me to reading new poets and old, steeping a few minutes of every day with the sound, look, music of poetry.

No matter what you’re writing read poetry everyday and see if it doesn’t open you up to new words, new ways of looking at things. See if your writing doesn’t improve. I think it will.

By the way, my three kids did survive the desert, too.

Check out Rod McKuen’s poetry here.