I am an impassioned re-writer. Even now, with Max and Menna in print, and in my hands, I occasionally think of things I would have changed, would do differently, want to add, how to make it better, etc.
So, I don't pretend to be a writing expert by any stretch, but what I do know is this. At some point, it's got to be done. Write it. Read it. Edit it. Read it again. Edit it again. Put it away for a while. Ask a person or two to read it. Edit it based on their feedback. Give it a few more days. Read it one last time, edit it again, call it done!
And so, in that vein, I am debuting novel #2. It's done. I've said it was done before. I've read it and rewritten it again. This time it is done! Done, done, done! So here is the synopsis... and I am working on some possibilities for getting it in print. I will keep you posted on that. This is what Don't Wake Up is all about.
Told from the perspective of Gillian, a plain, middle-aged woman, this story opens as she sits by the side of her comatose husband’s bed. As doctors and nurses rush to assure her that Ricky will recover well from this mysterious fall, Gillian muses over the years of cold silence and manipulation that have overshadowed their marriage, and her life.
While Gillian guiltily reveals that she hopes Ricky remains in his coma, leaving her to a delightfully empty house, his eyes open to reveal a man who claims to remember nothing of his former self. Gillian, convinced that this is only a furthering of the manipulations and cruel mind games that have filled most of her life, seeks to test this new Ricky. She invents a family they never had, and fills his head with stories of an imaginary life.
As she fabricates memories to give to this stranger husband, Gillian begins to reminisce about her sister Liza. The story of her Liza’s exodus from Gillian’s life unfolds in tandem with Ricky’s recovery, and holes in Gillian’s version of events become evident. How could a man so cold awaken so warm and caring? Why do the events leading up to Liza’s leaving continue to surface in her mind as she carries on an increasingly intricate charade?
As Ricky recovers and comes home, still sans his full memory, Gillian begins to question the validity of his illness, and subsequently the depravity of her actions. Constantly buoyed by memories of their loveless marriage, she progresses down a path that leaves her more and more resembling the deplorable man she describes in old Ricky. As new Ricky becomes increasingly soft and tender, Gillian must ask herself how far she will go to punish a man for sins he can’t remember committing.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
My friend makes movies!
About eight years ago, I was working as an intern at a trade publishing house. One day I picked up the phone to hear a voice on the other end ask how to go about submitting a query, and how long such things take, etc. When I told him it took about 4-5 months, the conversation went something like this:
Writer: "Four to five months? I could have half a baby in that time!"
Me: "Yes, but what would you do with half a baby?"
Writer: "I don't know, take it to parties, and stuff."
Me: Laughing too hard to respond
The writer is Shan Serafin, and the book, entitled Seventeen, was brilliant. I was so inspired by it that I kept emailing him, and we've been friends ever since. Shan lives in LA, and we've never met face-to-face, but converse over the phone or email frequently or infrequently as time allows.
And this is what is amazing about Shan: when he puts his mind to something, he does it.
Case in point-- available through On Demand you will currently find a film called Forest of the Living Dead, produced, written by, directed by, and staring my friend Shan Serafin You should watch it, especially if you are a horror movie fan.
The movie (not a zombie movie, as you might infer from the title) is about a man haunted by his ex-girlfriend, quite literally. She committed suicide in a mystical forest at the base of Mount Fuji, allowing her spirit to return and wreak general havoc in the life of the man who done her wrong. The story is fresh and original-- it plays on elements I've seen in other ghost stories or revenge stories, but avoids cliche-- the directing is stellar, and it has some genuinely look-away-this-is-creepy moments.
So I highly recommend my friend Shan's movie. If you've got $4.99 and a few hours to kill, surf over to On Demand.
I would be all the more effusive if my friend Shan would ever get around to reading Max and Menna... :)
Writer: "Four to five months? I could have half a baby in that time!"
Me: "Yes, but what would you do with half a baby?"
Writer: "I don't know, take it to parties, and stuff."
Me: Laughing too hard to respond
The writer is Shan Serafin, and the book, entitled Seventeen, was brilliant. I was so inspired by it that I kept emailing him, and we've been friends ever since. Shan lives in LA, and we've never met face-to-face, but converse over the phone or email frequently or infrequently as time allows.
And this is what is amazing about Shan: when he puts his mind to something, he does it.
Case in point-- available through On Demand you will currently find a film called Forest of the Living Dead, produced, written by, directed by, and staring my friend Shan Serafin You should watch it, especially if you are a horror movie fan.
The movie (not a zombie movie, as you might infer from the title) is about a man haunted by his ex-girlfriend, quite literally. She committed suicide in a mystical forest at the base of Mount Fuji, allowing her spirit to return and wreak general havoc in the life of the man who done her wrong. The story is fresh and original-- it plays on elements I've seen in other ghost stories or revenge stories, but avoids cliche-- the directing is stellar, and it has some genuinely look-away-this-is-creepy moments.
So I highly recommend my friend Shan's movie. If you've got $4.99 and a few hours to kill, surf over to On Demand.
I would be all the more effusive if my friend Shan would ever get around to reading Max and Menna... :)
Monday, April 25, 2011
I lied when I said I don't write poetry...
... I guess I should say I don't write poetry per se...
As I've mentioned before, I try not to let this site become a place for me to unload my feelings. But I just discovered something I wrote in December of 2009. It's not a poem, it's not a story... it's more of a journal entry that is all mushy, gushy, and about my feelings. But it is relevant to the blog of a writer, because it is one of many, many notes and scraps and tidbits I have that I hope to one day piece together in some coherent fashion that pays adequate tribute to my mom, and to all of the other mom's fighting their butts off against cancer. And to all of the daughters holding their hands through it.
It made me sad to find this, but it reminded me that when I am ready, hers is a story that needs to be told. She was too amazing not to tell it-- I just hope I can do it better justice than this, but I was distraught when I wrote this... I have an excuse, really! ;)
I hope everyone had a good Easter, and that you avoid getting sucked into my melancholy, as it were. It's usually a transient phase for me anyway!
I can feel the grey of the sky seeping in. It’s on my coat, my hands, my face, as I struggle down the street, propelled by this guilt that has swept in so quickly. I shouldn’t have gone for a walk, no need to stretch my legs now. There will be so much time for that later. After.
The rain falls in fits and bursts, cold and shallow and angry. We are all torn, those of us that scurry down the street, between this primal urge to huddle together in some futile protest against the weather, and our lifelong training to walk with a purpose, head down, and keep from letting anyone unfamiliar into our world.
The familiar screech of an ambulance siren echoes down Baltimore Street like a drop of water in some dark cavern. I can’t help but shudder—how quickly I’ve learned to associate that sound with the dread of wondering if this is the moment when the constant flux, the wondering, ends and the grieving begins.
The square in front of the entrance is a buzz with the musings of these living dead. Can you spare a dollar, I’ve got to catch the bus. Everyone seems to be going somewhere, laying tracks up their arms.
Inside
The blood hangs scarlet from its perch on this dark pole. We’re sitting in the land of quickly worn Bibles and carefully veiled terror. Don’t worry, she says, today I just need blood.
Today I just need blood.
Half a world away, it spills on battlegrounds. We spend so much to kill, and fight so hard to live. I try not to think about it now. The irony is overwhelming, and I understand those dog-eared gospels. We all just want to know that someone gets to decide.
I remember my first trip into this jungle of IV poles. Here, poison comes in carefully weighed out pouches, bad news in rivers, and good news packaged with so many Surgeon General Warnings. Warning: Hope Has Been Known To Hurt.
Yesterday I shot the cork from my champagne across the living room, and cried freely over a perfect match. I grew drunk on this feeling, this knowing that we beat them, with their white coats and terrifying statistics.
And yet, here she sits today. I wonder at it now, the source of so much teenage angst, the target for my screaming and railing a mere decade ago, asking me to walk her to the bathroom. I hold her hand as she toddles, chide her for not bringing her cane, and despise myself a little for not knowing then that I would need her so much now.
The sobering news, reminder of that warning, perhaps I uncorked that champagne prematurely. I jinxed it. It’s an old trend, and so I should have known that being drunk with that power would mean this—they took it back. They added the “ifs.”
But now, the IV is beeping, the blood is done, and its time to head home. Give me your hand, I’ll walk you out. She has to stand on the corner while I get the car.
I watch over my shoulder anxiously before I disappear into the parking garage to make sure she is still OK. How many times did she do this when I was young?
As I've mentioned before, I try not to let this site become a place for me to unload my feelings. But I just discovered something I wrote in December of 2009. It's not a poem, it's not a story... it's more of a journal entry that is all mushy, gushy, and about my feelings. But it is relevant to the blog of a writer, because it is one of many, many notes and scraps and tidbits I have that I hope to one day piece together in some coherent fashion that pays adequate tribute to my mom, and to all of the other mom's fighting their butts off against cancer. And to all of the daughters holding their hands through it.
It made me sad to find this, but it reminded me that when I am ready, hers is a story that needs to be told. She was too amazing not to tell it-- I just hope I can do it better justice than this, but I was distraught when I wrote this... I have an excuse, really! ;)
I hope everyone had a good Easter, and that you avoid getting sucked into my melancholy, as it were. It's usually a transient phase for me anyway!
I can feel the grey of the sky seeping in. It’s on my coat, my hands, my face, as I struggle down the street, propelled by this guilt that has swept in so quickly. I shouldn’t have gone for a walk, no need to stretch my legs now. There will be so much time for that later. After.
The rain falls in fits and bursts, cold and shallow and angry. We are all torn, those of us that scurry down the street, between this primal urge to huddle together in some futile protest against the weather, and our lifelong training to walk with a purpose, head down, and keep from letting anyone unfamiliar into our world.
The familiar screech of an ambulance siren echoes down Baltimore Street like a drop of water in some dark cavern. I can’t help but shudder—how quickly I’ve learned to associate that sound with the dread of wondering if this is the moment when the constant flux, the wondering, ends and the grieving begins.
The square in front of the entrance is a buzz with the musings of these living dead. Can you spare a dollar, I’ve got to catch the bus. Everyone seems to be going somewhere, laying tracks up their arms.
Inside
The blood hangs scarlet from its perch on this dark pole. We’re sitting in the land of quickly worn Bibles and carefully veiled terror. Don’t worry, she says, today I just need blood.
Today I just need blood.
Half a world away, it spills on battlegrounds. We spend so much to kill, and fight so hard to live. I try not to think about it now. The irony is overwhelming, and I understand those dog-eared gospels. We all just want to know that someone gets to decide.
I remember my first trip into this jungle of IV poles. Here, poison comes in carefully weighed out pouches, bad news in rivers, and good news packaged with so many Surgeon General Warnings. Warning: Hope Has Been Known To Hurt.
Yesterday I shot the cork from my champagne across the living room, and cried freely over a perfect match. I grew drunk on this feeling, this knowing that we beat them, with their white coats and terrifying statistics.
And yet, here she sits today. I wonder at it now, the source of so much teenage angst, the target for my screaming and railing a mere decade ago, asking me to walk her to the bathroom. I hold her hand as she toddles, chide her for not bringing her cane, and despise myself a little for not knowing then that I would need her so much now.
The sobering news, reminder of that warning, perhaps I uncorked that champagne prematurely. I jinxed it. It’s an old trend, and so I should have known that being drunk with that power would mean this—they took it back. They added the “ifs.”
But now, the IV is beeping, the blood is done, and its time to head home. Give me your hand, I’ll walk you out. She has to stand on the corner while I get the car.
I watch over my shoulder anxiously before I disappear into the parking garage to make sure she is still OK. How many times did she do this when I was young?
Sunday, April 24, 2011
The Space A Story Takes
There is often a tension between what a writer wants to write, and what a reader wants to read. As a writer, I hate these types of questions. I want to write what is in my soul, but that doesn't always fit into a neatly bound package or on a bookshelf.
I am struggling with this currently as I have just finished my second novel (again-- yes, I am always editing) and it comes in at 49,600 words, or about 150 book pages. Technically speaking, anything under 50,000 words (and some say 70,000) is a novella. And I am torn. This is a book I am proud of. I'm not preparing for a Nobel by any stretch, but I love moments of it and think it is a story worth telling. But what to do with a book this short? There is more story in my head, but these are extra scenes that I may clutter the book.
I have never been a huge fan of books that take up more space than is called for. I love lyrical descriptions, and poetic narrative, and beautiful writing that carries you away, but have seldom appreciated extraneous pages, unnecessary back story, or unessential detail in any book. It is a skill to balance both, a skill I will likely be working on for the rest of my career, and I err on the side of simplicity over complexity. I would rather a story live in the space it is due, be it short or long, than expand it beyond its natural borders.
This is a rather nebulous concept, I imagine. Think about this:
I am struggling with this currently as I have just finished my second novel (again-- yes, I am always editing) and it comes in at 49,600 words, or about 150 book pages. Technically speaking, anything under 50,000 words (and some say 70,000) is a novella. And I am torn. This is a book I am proud of. I'm not preparing for a Nobel by any stretch, but I love moments of it and think it is a story worth telling. But what to do with a book this short? There is more story in my head, but these are extra scenes that I may clutter the book.
I have never been a huge fan of books that take up more space than is called for. I love lyrical descriptions, and poetic narrative, and beautiful writing that carries you away, but have seldom appreciated extraneous pages, unnecessary back story, or unessential detail in any book. It is a skill to balance both, a skill I will likely be working on for the rest of my career, and I err on the side of simplicity over complexity. I would rather a story live in the space it is due, be it short or long, than expand it beyond its natural borders.
This is a rather nebulous concept, I imagine. Think about this:
- A Prayer for Owen Meany may often seem that it is full of extraneous detail, but by the end you care convinced that every word and sentence is absolutely crucial. It is masterful. Many have told me I am wrong.
- The Road by Cormac McCarthy is a book I am not actually a fan of, but I do have to appreciate the eloquence in how sparcely written it is (so sparce he all but ignores punctuation). There is not a single word in that entire book that is not crucial to the point conveyed. No one has ever disagreed with me here.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Comfort Fiction-- Part 3
In my series on comfort fiction, I have now covered movies, and television. The next logical place is books, right?
But how on Earth do I choose ONE book that comforts me to write about? I love to curl up in books, it is the best way for me to turn my brain off after a tough day? Reading is also a way to challenge myself, stimulate my brain, get my mind going.
There are just too many that I love too much to pick just one comfort book...
So here is what we're going to do-- tell me YOUR comfort fiction. What do you read when life gets rough? Or what book can you read over and over and over again? What book always fills you with some kind of something, or makes you feel infinite?
Post your answers (and the why) below. One lucky commenter is going to win a book... for once, I am not giving away Max and Menna! I am giving away one of my favorite works of comfort fiction, to be chosen based on the particular style of the winning commenter.
But how on Earth do I choose ONE book that comforts me to write about? I love to curl up in books, it is the best way for me to turn my brain off after a tough day? Reading is also a way to challenge myself, stimulate my brain, get my mind going.
There are just too many that I love too much to pick just one comfort book...
- I read Ender's Game once a year. It reminds me of my adolesence (in a good way) and always inspires me
- During tough times, the Sookie Stackhouse novels are incredible ways to turn off the world and escape into some juicy, fanciful, vampire stories
- When I need reminded of how much power there is in simply being a woman, Margaret Atwood is always there for me
- When I needed reminding that the the human spirit can prosper and overcome a lot more than one might think, my beloved Sherman Alexie is there for me
- When I am craving the beautifully weird, hello John Irving
So here is what we're going to do-- tell me YOUR comfort fiction. What do you read when life gets rough? Or what book can you read over and over and over again? What book always fills you with some kind of something, or makes you feel infinite?
Post your answers (and the why) below. One lucky commenter is going to win a book... for once, I am not giving away Max and Menna! I am giving away one of my favorite works of comfort fiction, to be chosen based on the particular style of the winning commenter.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
We interrupt our regularly scheduled broadcast...
To wish a happy birthday to my roommate and very best friend Sarah. She doesn't blog, and she probably won't read this.
Sarah is not fiction... fiction doesn't occupy our only bathroom for what seems like hours every morning... but she is my comfort friend.
We met in the seventh grade, and have remained friends ever since. We should all have at least one friend (in addition to significant others) that we can say anything to, without fear of judgement. Sarah is that friend to me... I couldn't keep a secret from her if my life depended on it, and she has been a rock through the tough times of the past few years.
Happy birthday, roommie.
Sarah is not fiction... fiction doesn't occupy our only bathroom for what seems like hours every morning... but she is my comfort friend.
We met in the seventh grade, and have remained friends ever since. We should all have at least one friend (in addition to significant others) that we can say anything to, without fear of judgement. Sarah is that friend to me... I couldn't keep a secret from her if my life depended on it, and she has been a rock through the tough times of the past few years.
Happy birthday, roommie.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Comfort Fiction-- Part 2
OK, I'm continuing with the theme. The month of April reminds me of grief and loss, so I am choosing instead to focus on the fiction that helps me cope. When I started this series, I thought "hmmm... hope I have enough to keep this going...." but I am actually having a hard time choosing just one thing to feature in each category. So, here goes:
The show: Sex and the City
I am reticent, actually, to sing the praises of this show because I have recently come to the conclusion that this show is the undoing of some portion of my generation. I know so many women in their thirties in the midst of major crisis that can, in some small way, be drawn back to this show. Real-life, powerful, successful, 30-something women seem to have difficulty in accepting their success and finding contentment in their lives because they don't look like those of Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha.
But, really, I doubt many women in New York have those lives... I have a hard time believing that on the income of one column, anyone could afford that many $450 shoes. (by the way, the combines sum of the price tags for every pair of shoes I own does not total $450). Women my age have a hard time believing that their single life is enough unless they have a $10,000 wardrobe, sweet apartment, and a steady parade of men. Consequently, all of these things are nearly impossible to acquire in Baltimore. Just FYI.
Nonetheless, I can watch this show anytime. Over and over again. I grimace over the similarities between myself and Carrie Bradshaw (though I am MUCH less emotional). I swoon over Steve, Harry, and Smith. I feel like one of the girls, and that feeling brings me much comfort, which is why, of all the shows I watch, this one makes the Comfort Fiction list.
The show: Sex and the City
I am reticent, actually, to sing the praises of this show because I have recently come to the conclusion that this show is the undoing of some portion of my generation. I know so many women in their thirties in the midst of major crisis that can, in some small way, be drawn back to this show. Real-life, powerful, successful, 30-something women seem to have difficulty in accepting their success and finding contentment in their lives because they don't look like those of Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha.
But, really, I doubt many women in New York have those lives... I have a hard time believing that on the income of one column, anyone could afford that many $450 shoes. (by the way, the combines sum of the price tags for every pair of shoes I own does not total $450). Women my age have a hard time believing that their single life is enough unless they have a $10,000 wardrobe, sweet apartment, and a steady parade of men. Consequently, all of these things are nearly impossible to acquire in Baltimore. Just FYI.
Nonetheless, I can watch this show anytime. Over and over again. I grimace over the similarities between myself and Carrie Bradshaw (though I am MUCH less emotional). I swoon over Steve, Harry, and Smith. I feel like one of the girls, and that feeling brings me much comfort, which is why, of all the shows I watch, this one makes the Comfort Fiction list.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Comfort Fiction-- Part 1
Though I try not to talk about it (here, there, or anywhere), I think April is going to be tough for the rest of my life. April, August, November through January, most of the other months-- all have reminders that I lost my mom far too early. Her birthday was last week, and with Easter approaching, my thoughts freqently go to a woman who at least once a year made herself sick with jelly beans.
So I am approaching April as the month of comfort stories-- stories you crawl into, or that wrap around you like an old blanket and just make you feel at ease.
I invite and encourage all of you to share with me (and us) what stories comfort you...
So part 1-- the movie:
Disclaimer: I am not goth. I also do not condone violence, drug use, or excessive profanity.
The Crow. Weird 90's cult classic about revenge and love and, quite frankly, violence. This is not a movie for the faint of heart, for sure, and I find it a bit odd that I can watch it over and over and over. So, for clarity sake, it is not the brutal, graphic violence, incessant profanity, or blatant drug use that makes me love it so much. It's nostalgia. I watched this movie over and over and over again in high school (not attracted by the above then, either, but latching on to the whole "true love is forever idea"...).
I think it is one of the most quotable movies of my adolecense, and so, a few quotes from The Crow, a reiteration that I am not goth or in love with violence, and thanks to the movie for taking me back to a simpler time.
So I am approaching April as the month of comfort stories-- stories you crawl into, or that wrap around you like an old blanket and just make you feel at ease.
I invite and encourage all of you to share with me (and us) what stories comfort you...
So part 1-- the movie:
Disclaimer: I am not goth. I also do not condone violence, drug use, or excessive profanity.
The Crow. Weird 90's cult classic about revenge and love and, quite frankly, violence. This is not a movie for the faint of heart, for sure, and I find it a bit odd that I can watch it over and over and over. So, for clarity sake, it is not the brutal, graphic violence, incessant profanity, or blatant drug use that makes me love it so much. It's nostalgia. I watched this movie over and over and over again in high school (not attracted by the above then, either, but latching on to the whole "true love is forever idea"...).
I think it is one of the most quotable movies of my adolecense, and so, a few quotes from The Crow, a reiteration that I am not goth or in love with violence, and thanks to the movie for taking me back to a simpler time.
- "Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children."
- "Halloween ain't till manyana..."
- "Victims, aren't we all."
- "You got me dead bang."
- "Fire it up."
- "There ain't no coming back, this is the really real world."
Saturday, April 9, 2011
To the land of dreamy men...
Please indulge me in a digression-- I have been trying to focus on things of substance, fiction that changes my understanding of things, places that make me happy, etc. But, the time has come to return to one of my favorite subjects... dreamy men. Ah yes, I have too long abandoned Ryan Buell, Ben Barnes, Joseph Gordon Levitt, and friends, but a recent trip to a movie theater reminded me that it was long past time to add a new name to my list: James McAvoy.
The ironic thing is that I can't think of any of his movies off the top of my head that I have loved, save for Penelope and The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe (and he is a fawn in that, goat legs automatically rendering anyone as NOT dreamy). I've seen a lot. Been OK with a few. Loved less... until now I hope, because this summer McAvoy takes on the role of one of my all-time favorite characters ever. Are you ready to see my geek? Well here it is, six words that give me chills: James McAvoy as Professor Charles Xavier. Seriously, I am giddy with anticipation.
I am also giddy with lack of sleep. I am trying so hard to wrap up a few loose ends on Book #2. I want to start talking about , sharing it, seriously shopping it, and, most importantly, put it to bed so I can work on Book #3. The publication of Max and Menna showed me, quite wonderfully, that maybe a future as a professional writer is on the horizon. Now I just need the present to give me time to make it happen :)
The ironic thing is that I can't think of any of his movies off the top of my head that I have loved, save for Penelope and The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe (and he is a fawn in that, goat legs automatically rendering anyone as NOT dreamy). I've seen a lot. Been OK with a few. Loved less... until now I hope, because this summer McAvoy takes on the role of one of my all-time favorite characters ever. Are you ready to see my geek? Well here it is, six words that give me chills: James McAvoy as Professor Charles Xavier. Seriously, I am giddy with anticipation.
I am also giddy with lack of sleep. I am trying so hard to wrap up a few loose ends on Book #2. I want to start talking about , sharing it, seriously shopping it, and, most importantly, put it to bed so I can work on Book #3. The publication of Max and Menna showed me, quite wonderfully, that maybe a future as a professional writer is on the horizon. Now I just need the present to give me time to make it happen :)
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Something Wicked This Way Comes...
I am late to the party again, but for you few and faithful readers, I return to a theme I've expressed before. I LOVE it when a piece of fiction, be it a book or a movie, can make me see something in a new way, or understand something I didn't understand before. It is with this in mind that this week, nearly 15 years late, I must sing the praises of Wicked.
If you somehow have managed to have not heard of this book, it is both a retelling of the Wizard of Oz from the perspective of the Wicked Witch of the West (or Elphaba as she is called) AND a prequel to the first book in Baum's series. With steely prose, author Greg Maguire constructs for us a main character that you love to hate and cannot help but understand, and a very different picture of the beloved Dorothy as hapless and tragic.
So why am I talking about it now, when so many of you know it and have probably read it already? Because despite some things in the book that irritated me (i.e. an extremely rushed ending), it accomplished what I think should be one of the primary goals of art-- it changed my perspective. It made me rethink and evaluate. It called into play that we are only ever hearing one side of a story. Fiction should open our minds, and this book definately reminded me of that.
If you've read Max and Menna, you know how much I enjoy to tell a tale from all angles. Consequently, the theme of the reader only ever seeing one side of the story is one I play upon extensively in my next novel. Stay tuned...
If you somehow have managed to have not heard of this book, it is both a retelling of the Wizard of Oz from the perspective of the Wicked Witch of the West (or Elphaba as she is called) AND a prequel to the first book in Baum's series. With steely prose, author Greg Maguire constructs for us a main character that you love to hate and cannot help but understand, and a very different picture of the beloved Dorothy as hapless and tragic.
So why am I talking about it now, when so many of you know it and have probably read it already? Because despite some things in the book that irritated me (i.e. an extremely rushed ending), it accomplished what I think should be one of the primary goals of art-- it changed my perspective. It made me rethink and evaluate. It called into play that we are only ever hearing one side of a story. Fiction should open our minds, and this book definately reminded me of that.
If you've read Max and Menna, you know how much I enjoy to tell a tale from all angles. Consequently, the theme of the reader only ever seeing one side of the story is one I play upon extensively in my next novel. Stay tuned...
Monday, April 4, 2011
The free book giveaway
So I have to go to the post office tomorrow and decided that this is a very fortuitous time to give away a book! So, for those of you who are making the jump from Facebook to here, or from elsewhere in the blog world, become a follower by the end of the day today (Monday, April 4) and maybe win a book! Here's how it works:
1. Click follow and become a follower
2. Post a comment and say hi, tell me about yourself, etc.
3. Feel welcome! I'm glad to have you here.
4. Tonight I will put all the names in a hat and select a winner. I will respond to the winner comment!
5. The winner will email my secure email address by tomorrow morning
6. On my way to the train station tomorrow, I will drop a book in the mail to you.
Make sense?
And, if you are new here, thank you for stopping by. If you want to know more about my book, and what people think, stop by Amazon.
1. Click follow and become a follower
2. Post a comment and say hi, tell me about yourself, etc.
3. Feel welcome! I'm glad to have you here.
4. Tonight I will put all the names in a hat and select a winner. I will respond to the winner comment!
5. The winner will email my secure email address by tomorrow morning
6. On my way to the train station tomorrow, I will drop a book in the mail to you.
Make sense?
And, if you are new here, thank you for stopping by. If you want to know more about my book, and what people think, stop by Amazon.
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