A few weeks ago, someone left a book overnight our copy machine at work. Since the copier is one of the first things I see when I arrive, I couldn’t overlook the book, or its cover:

Yes, someone in our office had been reading a Harlequin romance novel (a “SuperRomance,” at that.)  This particular novel is titled Enchanting Baby, part of a series called “The Birth Place,” all about expectant mothers caught in romantic (and by that I may mean  ’slightly smutty’) situations. Partly horrified but mostly curious, I picked up the book and read the charming description on the back:

“After her husband dies, TV star Ashleigh Logan turns to artificial insemination using her deceased spouse’s sperm to become pregnant with his child.”

How could I NOT want to read more? I cracked open the book and began to read aloud. That is, until my supervisor made me stop because things were getting a bit graphic, and dare I say, disturbing.  It was probably unintended, but Enchanting Baby can almost be considered a good book, under the following criteria:

Great hook– One of the  chapters opened with this sentence: “With Ashleigh clinging to his neck, in the throes of contraction,  Greg thought his Glock may as well have been locked up in the lock box.” I probably would have never thought to begin anything with “in the throes of a contraction.” That is a very unique sentence. 

Suspense– Why did Greg have a gun during Ashleigh’s contractions? And why are they engaging in amorous behavior during such a time? The suspense begins already! Quick browsing also revealed that Ashleigh was being stalked, so now you also have the element of her trying to protect herself and her unborn baby from an assailant.

Plot– I have never read a book where a woman decides to carry her deceased husband’s child. Ever. I highly doubt this is standard fare in romance novels, so the author of this book gets bonus points for combining these elements.

Whether or not Enchanting Baby meets other “good book” criteria (complex characters, writing, etc), may never be known. I had been reading it off and on, but after feeling queasy for a bit, I set it on the counter and it disappeared. I haven’t seen it since.  I am still hoping to find it tucked behind a shelf, or maybe on the copier again. In the meantime, I’ll continue looking at my coworkers with shifty eyes, wondering who was reading a Harlequin SuperRomance. Mostly because I’m still curious how a story with Glocks, contractions, stalkers, and tv personalities can end.

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“Old man, look at my life: I’m a lot like you. I need someone to love me the whole day through…”—Neil Young, “Old Man”

Weeks ago, my dad called me to let me know that one of my blogs was published in the Wenatchee World. I knew it might happen, but I’d just dismissed it. My relationship with my writing is almost like the relationship between a parent and child, where it’s my offspring, but I usually let it thrive on its own. However, I tend to be a very forgetful, absent-minded parent. In this case, I forgot about my blog again. That is, until Dad called another two weeks later. Actually, I first heard an ominous voicemail: “This is your dad. I don’t like talking to machines. Call me when you get a chance.”

Immediately, my ingrained sense of panic kicked in. What did I do wrong this time? Am I supposed to feel guilty? Though I’ve never done anything horribly wrong, I had a knee-jerk reaction and almost blurted out, “I didn’t do it!” when he answered.

It turns out I had done something, just not something bad. My dad called to say he had read my blog in that night’s paper and that he was proud of me. We talked for maybe five minutes, but in stoic Sanchez time, it felt like years. I cried. One, because the last time my dad said he was proud of me was the day I turned 21, and I will turn 25 this year. Two, because my brother and I grew up with good people as parents, but they weren’t taught to express affection, so neither were we. It has affected all of us deeply. And three, I cried because like the Neil Young song goes, I was suddenly very aware of who my dad was, and who I was because of him.

Today, August 6th, is my father’s birthday. 48 years ago, a baby was born and became a hard working, intelligent man who only wanted the best for his family. He never had all the answers and we’ve butted heads quite a bit, but if I learned to be an ethical and honest person, it was partly because of him. And so, today I wanted to say two words to my dad: thank you. Five words, if you add “I love you” to that. It is not an easy thing to say when you come from generations of people who didn’t learn that emotions are okay. I am proud of him, too.

Next time my blog gets published, I’ll probably return to the usual. You’ll either see a review of something I’ve read, or maybe a discussion about stories and characters. Or maybe you won’t read it, which is okay. But I know that my father will be at home, rifling through the paper to see his child’s work. And I hope these few words are enough.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

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A few seasons ago on The Office , the characters end up stranded in the parking lot due to a toaster-related fire in their building. As they wait for the fire department to arrive, Jim asks everyone to name three books they would take if they were to be stranded on a deserted island. This conversation starts about 45 seconds into the clip, so you can fast-forward:

The Office, \"The Fire\"

I’ve been thinking about which 3 books I would take to a deserted island with me. It’s been a tough choice, but here are my picks, in no type of order:

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, by Barbara Kingsolver. Although it probably wouldn’t do me much good to read about farming and sustainable agriculture on a deserted island, the book is filled with interesting information about things people eat, and the story of a family growing their own food for an entire year is inspiring. I recommend this book to anyone interested in learning how our food reaches us, what effect chemical additives have on humans, and what growing one’s own food is like. Also, her description of the Italian villages she visits on vacation would probably make me forget about life on a lonely island for a while.

To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee. I wish I had enough words to explain how this book affected me. I’ve read it twice; once when I was in grade school and then again last year. I don’t think I really understood it until I read it the second time. Scout’s innocence and Atticus Finch’s ethics and love for others made a huge impression on me.

The Summer of Black Widows, by Sherman Alexie. I became familiar with Sherman Alexie’s poetry in high school, thanks to a rather-progressive teacher who wanted us to read about the struggles of life on a reservation, among other things. Although I’ve read some of Alexie’s other works, I keep returning to this book. The poetry has made me laugh, feel sad, and want to be a poet. Alexie is extremely clever and each poem is carefully crafted (”The husk of a story museumed on the windowsill” is still one of my favorite lines, ever.) I read his poetry aloud to my husband when we first dated, and it also carried me through the terrible world of high school,  so I am very attached to this book in particular. Oh, and I also had Mr. Alexie sign this copy when he came to Wenatchee a few springs ago, so that’s a bonus.

I’ve read many books in my lifetime, but these have been the ones that I have never gotten sick of. What would your picks be?

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Until a few weeks ago, I owned a book called Life’s Little Instruction Book, written by a certain H. Jackson Brown.* An ambitious title for a book, maybe, but quick research on Amazon reveals that it has been translated into more than 30 languages, with more than two million copies sold. Is it possible that so many many people truly need instructions on living?
Apparently, yes. Millions of readers have given the author accolades, some Amazon reviewers claiming that “never has a book provided such constant comfort” (uh, I can think of a really big one that has, but for the sake of religious civility, I’ll say no more…) So what is all the hype?

From what I can see, nothing. This book is like the child of Hallmark cards and self-help books. It is just a big list of “instructions,” all meant to encourage people to lead meaningful lives. It’s great that there are books that remind people to be kind, to enjoy life, and to pause for reflection. However, the content is entirely based on common sense, or should be. That people need reminded to be civil and listen more than talk concerns me a bit. That Brown has probably made a fortune from this book concerns me even more. I digress.

The book can basically summarized in a few tennets, which I shall call “Claudia’s Little Instructions,” or “Things We Should All Know Anyway” (with my commentary in parentheses.) They are:

1. Be nice to others (Including, but not limited to: your family, your neighbors, and the people you interact with. I will be extremely forward and say this also means being nice to people who provide customer service in person or on the phone. Some of us really want to help. We’d probably be more inclined to help you if you could be polite when you come in. And hey, some of us are also young, but we truly know what we’re doing, so you can trust us at work. REALLY.)

2. Be nice to yourself. (Because if you aren’t, who will be? I wish I could go back in time and be much, much nicer to my younger self. It would have saved me a great amount  of heartache.)

3. Work hard… (strive to remain ethical, even if people laugh at you. Nobody ever got sued because they were always at work and rarely took breaks. Or did they? Because then I might be in trouble.)

4. …But not too hard (Take time to relax, even if it’s just for a few minutes a day.)

5. Watch your language (Nation, stop swearing, especially in public! It makes you sound tacky! Girls, it’s not cute to be crass! Gentlemen, there are still some ladies that get embarrassed by the things you say. Watch it.)

And there, gentle reader(s), are five nuggets of wisdom from yours truly (and I didn’t even charge you the price of the book.)

In the spirit of offering advice, what are some “instructions” you would share with society today?

*Not to be confused with Jackson Browne , one of my favorite singers, and someone most of my peers haven’t heard of. Yes, sometimes I feel much older than 24.

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Lately, I have been preoccupied with death. Well, maybe not exactly worried about it, since it happens to everyone, but I can’t stop thinking about it. I am so utterly SAD that people have to die. It is just so completely devastating to think that one second I can be laughing with someone, and the next day, they could no longer be living. To think that my parents, or my husband, or brother will one day not be here, just crushes me. While I’ve always been a naturally morbid person, I blame this depressed mood on the latest book I’ve been reading, Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers, by Mary Roach.

I have read Roach’s writing for many years now, as she writes for  Reader’s Digest. Her magazine column is always extremely amusing, but I don’t know that her humor works well for a delicate subject like death. In fact, it sort of had the opposite effect, not of making me feel lighthearted about death, but making me feel a huge sadness for the cadavers she wrote about. For, as she points out, these cadavers were once someone’s grandfather, or grandmother, or so forth.  In fact, she makes a joke of it, asking something like how it feels to shoot someone’s grandpa in the face. I cringed when she asks this question to the reader. At what point in their existence do cadavers stop being a loved one and just become a collection of bones and flesh, or just an object? I struggled heavily with this question as I read this book.

Most of the book described ballistics testing, and how cadavers are involved in determining how much damage a bullet can cause, and what a cadaver smells like out on the shooting range. Although Roach tried to put a positive spin on some of the tests she described (like how for every cadaver that acts as a crash-test dummy, 160 lives are saved), I just could not finish the book. I don’t know that I ever will, honestly.

From a purely scientific point of view, I can appreciate the book. I think Roach tries hard to seek tangible, informed answers. I know that she has tackled a subject that is difficult for people to think about, and I do respect her for that. I, however, don’t think I’d have the ability to detach myself enough to think corpse and not person. I would rather delve into the science of being alive, of all the wonderful little mechanisms that make humans more than just bodies. And in that respect, I’d like to think of people as being similar to books: as entities holding a multitude of stories and emotions inside, and not just a compilation of physical parts.

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Some of my fellow bloggers have been reminiscing about their younger years, spurred by a song or book that brought back memories. Their posts made me think of some of the stories I grew up with, which then made me think of the art behind stories.

You see, it takes a certain kind of magic to imagine a horrific, terrifying “fairy tale,” put it into words, and then share those words with a poor, unsuspecting child. Creative folklore? Yes. Twisted, creative folklore? Yep, that as well. In short, many of my childhood fairy tales were very disturbing. Don’t believe me? Think of “Little Red Riding Hood.” When was the last time you slept peacefully after being told of a grandma-eating wolf? That sounds scary to me now, and  I’m 24 years old, not 4. I bet it also sounds scary if you’re a grandma.

Perhaps it’s a cultural thing, but the storytellers in my family loved morality tales. You know, the kind of story meant to scare us kids away from getting Grandma’s or Mom’s couches dirty* and more towards being Incredibly Good Boys & Girls (in capitals, because it seemed that important.) One of the favorites among my aunts and uncles was the story of La Llorona, a woman who drowns  her children  and is condemned to walk around wailing in the afterlife, in an eternal and futile search for her children’s bodies. Maybe that’s why we always looked at our aunts and uncles with shifty-eyed caution (or maybe it was admission of guilt?) We always knew that if we were bad, either La Llorona could come and get us, or a headless horseman would snatch us out of bed, or things of the sort.

Once I grew up and learned to read English, I found that it wasn’t just my family that told bizarre stories. So did everyone else! You never wanted your parents to divorce, because your new stepmother would either make you clean a lot, or she was secretly a witch and would try to eat you. How pleasant!  As I got older, it seemed like my generation was still fascinated with twisted, borderline gruesome tales, although now they weren’t just bedtime stories or folklore. Now they were entire series like the Goosebumps books,which still give me the heebie-jeebies. Let’s just say I’ll probably never visit a castle with a dungeon.

In retrospect, it’s interesting that I still love books, despite the scary stories and Hans Christian Andersen junk of my youth. Part of me thinks it’s because I can still appreciate that words can be combined to create a story of terror, suspense, or elicit any other emotion. Amazing! Words are a wonderful invention, whether they be spoken, sung, written, or told as tales from one generation to the next. They are even wonderful when they cause you to look at the world with suspicion and caution, eyes ready for ghosts and goblins, witches and wailing women.

*Legend and family lore have it that once upon a time, a certain young child covered herself in Crisco from head to toe. When discovered, said child took a flying leap onto her mother’s couch. I hear it was a bad day to be a Claudia after that. I don’t remember, so it must all just be a tall tale.

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(excuse the pun here; I’m sure Mike Irwin could have come up with a better one. Alas, I tried.)

The latest news in the book world this week is the launch of Amazon’s Kindle DX, its “newest addition to the Kindle family,” according to Amazon. All great and fascinating, you say, but what is a Kindle? Well, look here:

A Kindle is basically a little machine (think laptop) that lets you download electronic books directly from the vast universes found online (okay, really just from Amazon.com and a few other sites, but this all sounds terribly hi-tech to me.) Most books cost $10 to download, but you can find classics for as little as $1.99.  You can also download some magazines and newspapers, and read it on your Kindle’s screen. The new Kindle boasts that it can hold up to 3,500 books and documents, and it can even read some material out loud (I wonder if it does so in a robotic voice.) I suppose that’s the least it could do, at a hefty $489 for the latest version. Yikes.

The pros to owning a Kindle? You don’t have to worry about losing  books, loaning to people that don’t return them (ahem), and you also don’t have to worry about books taking up space, if that’s a concern. Kindles are portable, easily fitting into a purse or backpack. Also, much like a regular book, you can bookmark pages, make notes, highlight passages, and if you don’t understand a word, you can look it up in the built-in dictionary.

The cons? Well, if you like collecting books, that’s out of the question. Also, I’ve heard that the newer Kindle versions have lighter font, making it hard to read. In a struggling economy, $489 is quite a price for something that strains your eyes.

Part of me wonders if Kindle and Kindle-related technology will change how we access reading material. Namely, will books become obsolete? Or just as bad, will it render libraries obsolete? While I honestly can’t see that happening in the near future, part of me wonders how this will all unfold. What do you think?

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Okay, so in trying to read new books, I’ve encountered a dilemma: what to do when a book isn’t very interesting. Do I keep on reading, hoping it’ll eventually get better? Or should I just quit and move on to a better book? I don’t have an answer yet, but my husband and I disagree. He will finish a book no matter what, whereas I will get bored and stop reading it altogether.

What do you think? Do you trudge through a slow beginning to “get to the good part”? I’ve been trying to read a book for a week now, and it’s just not interesting so far. It’s a good idea for a plot, but I just don’t know what to think yet. Part of me feels like I should just keep reading. The other part of me, though, feels like life is too short to read mediocre books.

Hmm. What to do?

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Well, legions of fans (I am kidding), you will all be glad to hear that I have returned to the blogging world. In the last month or so since I’ve written, I’ve:

-Moved to a “new” house (”new” to me, but it’s really about 100 years old, and my husband’s family has lived there for a long time.) I now live on a road named after  an amusement park ride. Can I say I hate our driveway? Because I do.

-Not finished unpacking

-Cleaned out the fridge

-Not finished a single book.

I know, I know. I still have many books to read and October 13th looms like a menacing cloud (insert ominous Jaws music here.) That said, I did manage to read one last book before moving out of our old apartment. That book was The Glass Castle by former msnbc.com contributor and journalist Jeanette Walls.

The Glass Castle is a memoir that tells the story of Jeannette and her siblings growing up with dysfunctional parents. Their mother, Rose Mary, lives for art and art only; she is relatively uninterested in taking care of her family. As Walls explains it, Rose Mary sees no significance in things like cooking dinner, as meals will only last a few minutes. A good painting or sketch, though, will last much longer, and is therefore more valuable. Uh oh. It is this logic (or lack of) that leads to 3-year old Jeannette’s stint in the hospital, badly burned after trying to cook on the stovetop. Yes, you read that correctly. She was three.

The children’s father, Rex, is not much more of a parent. Constantly running from the government (for reasons both real and imagined), he leads the family through a nomadic lifestyle, even as they continue having more children.  He is a man of heartbreaking promises and lofty ideas, and while some of them may have worked, his alcoholism and erratic behavior prevent any progress. As he fails to head the household, Jeannette takes over and becomes both the father and mother to her younger siblings. Eventually, both Rex and Rose Mary end up homeless, rummaging through the dumpsters and  streets of New York.

You’d think that with this plotline, the book would have been depressing, but it wasn’t at all. There were obviously sad parts, but the overall tone was not one of despair. It was an engaging read; often hilarious and always well-written. Jeannette Walls  never victimizes herself or her siblings, nor does she blame their parents for lack of parenting. Even when you begin the book, you see that she could be justified in holding grudges or being resentful, but I never got that feeling from her writing. Sad, yes, but not a sob story.

The book poses an excellent question: do people choose to end up in situations like being homeless, or is it just their destiny? Are certain groups of people more prone to poverty than others, or is it more a matter of choice?

Regardless of what your opinion may be, I highly recommend this book. I picked it up and didn’t put it back down until 3 hours later, when I was finished. It is that good. If you are looking for a fascinating story of family dynamics and survival, this is it. Word on the street is that there’s a film coming out (or maybe it has already?) based on this book. If it’s as good as the book, it might be worth checking out.

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