Still Harping on THAT BOOK

It surprised me with good intentions and then waylaid me with examples of the "big" novels that I've never read. I'm not as widely read as I thought...and I'm embarrassed to say that I did read one of the examples because of the pink dress on the cover. It wasn't one that I enjoyed and I didn't keep reading the rest of the author's books. Still, the pink dress was lovely.

At least I've come to realize that in taste and inclination, I'm not a novelist. There is something in the best novelists that is interested in the wide and deep, the currency with which we pay for modernity or for whatever time in which we live. A novelist doesn't let cost or fears or other restrictions prevent her traveling or her listening in at Starbucks and watching the entire ebb and flow of a day. She relinquishes the structures of control to the extent that she rides the rails of the time or the place and the characters without steering them. This is a habit of perception that is not native to me, nor do I anticipate that it will become so.

Minor quibbles pile up--how often do I pick up a modern novel and become exhausted by the pace or by the way the author keeps beating up on his main character? If I disagree with your taste do I disagree with your premise? Do I want to read about a flawed, damaged, weatherbeaten character for a break? Maybe. Sometimes. However, I don't want to write them.

The Thing That Everybody Wants

Every meeting for the past couple of weeks, someone in my writer's group throws another log on the fire. Another "should," another rule, another "thing a novel must do." Add the pressure of every swallowed rebuttal, and this wisdom has turned to ash and coal without further transformation. What do these rules violate to the point of fury? For me, they call to mind Harrison Bergeron. I imagine narratives chained to the taste and preference of "everyone," forced to fill the engineered channel of a billion copies sold. Therefore, I , too, would be forced to choose from only those books in that same flat, wide channel.

This, of course, is foolishness. There are plenty of novels and short stories that are different, that don't follow a particular course. And there is no lack within the group, either, of fascinating stories. In fact, my reading has never been broader since I worked on my English degree. Even so, I am not every reader. My tastes veer sharply away from apocalyptic fiction, from blood and horror, from the cruelties that are part of humanity. I can't forego that, because they are my inheritance and humanity as well. Laziness and fear and the cowardice of action...these I couldn't avoid whether novelized or not. And then there are tropes, such as those of a romance, that lead to and from 'love' or 'treasure' on tracks no less stiff than those of your average rail yard. These, however, are my preferences only. They are important to me in selecting books, but not to a generic rule in fostering widescale enjoyment (not exactly a world-domination style evil goal, either).

I don't like rules for novels because my reading preferences are perhaps percentagewise not in the vast majority or even in the simple majority at times. Regardless of my own writing and my desire to become published, my stronger desire is to read and to have the opportunity to read those things that force their way into MY soul. Things that have not been flattened by the "should."

Good Parts of the Garden

It's the change of another season here--a few days that have previewed the heat of summer and a thunderstorm or two as well. Spring flowers (sweet peas, bluebonnets) have faded, leaving the blue to a few tiny Bachelor's Buttons that are just now coming up.

The Peruvian lily (left) is blooming, along with the Easter lilies. For some reason this year, the stalks are fairly short, a foot or so in most cases. I don't know what the vine behind the lily and to the left is. It came up in the same pot as the miniature pine tree and is slowly twisting its way between the other pots. So far, it hasn't bloomed and doesn't seem to be looking for a support, just running.

One miniature sunflower has come up, but it was covered in ants today. Too bad the zoo won't rent out anteaters. Most of the rest of the beds are covered in between-season weeds and the remnants of pansies. The sweet peas are slowly(!!) setting seed. This wasn't a perfect year for them, although they have now naturalized in part of the yard. More fertilizer and next year they should be better.

I'm hoping the bat-faced cuphea (left) will be around for the entire summer. This year it has a pot mostly to itself (except for that dark pink-spot plant). There is a double version of this at Home Depot that I am trying to resist--but I'm not sure if I'll be able to. It doesn't have the little faces, but the red frills run all the way around the purple tube.

I'm thinking about adding a pot of lilies, including the seeds that have sprouted on my windowsill, the Easter lilies that are escaping the brick border in the yard, the amaryllis seeds I brought from LJ, and possibly one of the Peruvian lilies if some of the other plants in the pot take over. That way, I'll have only spot that needs a heavy dose of water during the summer and I can move that closer to the house. If I do that, I may move some of the (never) blooming irises into a pot next door and beg for a fountain from the Master of All Household Improvements. This could be the year he gets his firepit...

The Special World

Skunk smell lingers in the corner by the gate and the dog races to the yellow leaves falling golden behind the fence. Here in the Special World, drops fall like footsteps in the green between the fences. A careful nose discerns hidden roots and a persistent set of puppy teeth uproots those slender wooden interlopers from the no-man's-land between the fences. There are other dogs behind the higher wooden fences, but I can't see them. Our office puppy can hear them, though. Like the birds and squirrels that creep and race through the shade in this corner of the yard, she is curious about their smell and their sounds. We remain here for a few minutes, glancing back at the back corner of the low building. It seems further away from us than it should, separated by a blank concrete pad that I could cross in five strides. When it rains again this afternoon, the bushes and trees will gossip in that percolating rhythm of water running down to the soft grass.

***

I have sinusitus of the writing lobe, the kind of blockage that begs for antihistamines and sleep. To keep that myself minimally active, I've been reading how-to books, starting with The Writer's Journey. It's both informative and precious, which is a perfect combination to keep me reading and goad me to stop and just get on with it. Just a few more pages and no more excuses...right?

Even the Gas Stations

Even the gas stations are beautfiul in The Woodlands. Under a generous
canopy, over the low top of the car, I can see 7-foot while oleanders,
topped by bright green oaks, and threaded and capped by pines. Against
the blunt, infinite blue the pines look dirty. There is nothing but
birds in the trees, maybe squirrels. Nothing to fathom in the blank
blue. Part of me expects to see a title scrolling across the sky, displaying the title of the next episode.

I just realized the sky was Brady Bunch blue.

Somehow, the conference call, the office dog, and the rest of it make more sense. Now, if only someone would hand me a script and the laugh track, we'd be good.