Beach Reads 2019!

A few days ago, I participated in my "Summer is Here!" ritual: walking the stacks of the library, judging books by their covers.  If you haven't read my post on this ritual, you can find it back in June of 2018.  It's my favorite day of the year, and , yes, that means I like it even better than my birthday.  Here's my Summer 2019 stack, along with my thoughts (often quite superficial) upon choosing each book:

Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard by Kiran Desai: The bright cover caught my eye, but so did the name of the author.  I am embarrassed to say that I've never read a book by Desai, though one of my AP Lit students' least favorite prompts is from The Inheritance of Loss, which I've picked up on several occasions only to realize that the timing wasn't right.  That said, I chose this one, no joke, because I love guavas and "hullabaloo" is one of my favorite words.  Go ahead--judge me.

Jack the Ripper: Case Closed by Gyles Brandreth: The most recent book in the Oscar Wilde Mysteries, a series I spend time in every summer.  I absolutely adore these books because I adore Wilde.  What a man!  What a life!  What extravagance!  You may recall my recent near-faint experience when I passed by the Savoy on a bus, so my excitement about this book shouldn't surprise anyone.  The American title is Oscar Wilde and the Return of Jack the Ripper, but it's only available in hardback, and I prefer a nice paperback at the beach, so, to my chagrin, this book will not match the others in the Gyles Brandreth section of my library.  (I purchased this book since the library did not have it--a travesty!)  I also have a peculiar fascination with all things Jack the Ripper, so the marriage of the two in this book certainly has my expectations at an insanely high level.

The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon by Alexander McCall Smith: If you follow this blog, then you know that each summer the first book I read at the beach is the next in McCall Smith's "No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency" series.  To me, his books mean "summer".  If you've not begun this series, I encourage you to do so.  Both men and women love the main character, Mma Ramotswe, along with the mysteries and the cultural aspects of the books. 

Possessing the Secret of Joy by Alice Walker: I realize this one doesn't seem like a "beach book".  The subject matter is heavy, but important, but when I'm at the beach, I find I can think clearly and better deal with the issues that are troubling me.  I admire Walker more than I can say; I truly believe she's one of our greatest living writers.  I will read anything she writes, be it novel, poem, or lecture.  And you should too.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera: Perhaps my most superficial choice.  The title is beautiful.  The cover features a bowler hat floating above a sepia toned lane.  I know I've heard of this book.  Now's the time.

If Beale Street Could Talk by James Baldwin: I always read a book before seeing the movie, and I'm ashamed to say I didn't know about this book before the movie adaptation began receiving such great acclaim.  My lack of knowledge shows exactly why voices that have been denied a place in the literary canon need to be brought to the forefront.  I'm excited to read this one as I'm new to Baldwin (also an embarrassing admission), though I Am Not Your Negro is one of the most poignant, important films I've seen.  I'm looking forward to reading Baldwin's words on the page.

Dear Mr. Knightley by Katherine Reay: The pink cover with swirly, black script caught my eye.  The reference to Austen and the epistolary form are right up my alley.  That's all it took.

Swallowing Mercury by Wioletta Greg: Shortlisted for the Booker Prize.  Written by an award-winning poet.  Beautiful cover.  Yes, please.

Curtain by Agatha Christie: No one should ever need to explain why they're reading an Agatha Christie novel.  A few years ago, I chose to have "The Summer of Agatha Christie", and I tore through her novels.  Thankfully, there are still a few left to read.  If you've never picked up a Christie novel, I am incredibly sad for you.  You need to right this wrong, immediately.

At the Water's Edge by Sarah Gruen: I adored Water for Elephants.  I love novels set in times and places I have only ever imagined.  I also adore a book that incorporates vintage photographs (just one reason I also love Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children).  I'm excited to read another book by the author.  I didn't even need to read the inside flap.  She had me at Water for Elephants.

This is my starter list for summer.  What should I read once I finish this stack?  Leave your recommendations in the comments here or on my Instagram post!  

Literary Travels, Part II

Pardon the delay...the end of the school year happened.

One of my life goals was to cross the British Channel, and so after our sojourn to England, our tour group boarded a ferry to do just that.

We embarked in Portsmouth, which has a rich literary heritage.  In a pub called "The Slug and Lettuce" (I kid you not), photographs of Rudyard Kipling and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle don the walls, and here I learned that Conan Doyle actually wrote "A Study in Scarlet" while living in Portsmouth.  Thus, this seaside town is the birthplace of Sherlock Holmes. 

Now on to the Channel crossing, but let me begin by taking a moment to tell you just how much I underestimated the term "ferry".  We were to take a "ferry"across the English Channel.  Now, where I come from, in South Carolina, a "ferry" is a small, sometimes double-decker boat that has little benches inside and a narrow, railed deck wrapping about the "cabin".  We usually have a cocktail and cross the harbor on our "ferry" at sunset, looking for dolphins.

This was not like our South Carolina ferries.  For starters, when I walked out of the terminal, I saw what amounted to a cruise ship and proceeded to wheel my suitcase up a series of ramps to reach the gangway.  We gathered in the movie theatre for our embarkation instructions, were notified of the disco upstairs as well as the cafeteria, and were then sent to our staterooms, rooms so tiny, our suitcases wouldn't fit on the floor, but with bunks, which is very literary indeed!

Being the person I am, I immediately ran to the back of the ferry to catch a glimpse of Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, Victoria and Albert's vacation home.  It was nearly eleven at night, so I didn't get the view I had hoped for, but I saw the dim outline of the island and the faint glow of a light.  And then I took about ten pictures--of what amounted to darkness.  No matter.  My heart was full.  My roommate and fellow English teacher took the opportunity to read Matthew Arnold's "Dover Beach": "The sea is calm tonight./The tide is full, the moon lies fair/Upon the straits" (1-3).

The next day began with a visit to Arromanches, Normandy, and Omaha Beach.  There's no sense trying to describe the feeling of these places.  I stood on the beach on a beautiful April day, looking inland, towards the hills, and I was overwhelmed.  That's all I can say.  Sometimes the absence of words matters as well.

We stopped in the picturesque town of Bayeux and had crepes and frites at a creekside restaurant before visiting the famed Bayeux Tapestry, a literary landmark in its own right.  The ability to tell stories through images is astounding to me.  Every detail was specifically determined, and it was a wonder to imagine the fingers that made each stitch, thousands of stitches used to tell the story of the Battle of Hastings.  More than reading reprinted ink words on a page, the human touch on the story had a significant impact on me.

We spent the night in Caen (where I broke down a bought a cheeseburger after an unfortunate salmon incident) and that was the night that Notre Dame was overtaken by flames.  I recall standing in a restaurant, waiting on my to-go order, and watching the tragedy play out on two giant flat screen televisions.  The restaurant was remarkably quiet, and our server was visibly distraught, at one point apologizing through her tears because she was so distracted.  It is surreal being in a place where a national tragedy is happening, and yet being not of that nation.  There were no words to comfort our French neighbors, but the images of people singing and praying and holding one another revealed the strength and endurance of the French people.

My literary travels continued the next day when we stopped for lunch at Montreuil-sur-mer.  This was an unscheduled stop, but a happy one, as it is the town where Victor Hugo often visited and which he immortalized as the town of which Jean Valjean is mayor in Les Miserables.  I naturally overreacted about this in an embarrassing display that may have included a quiet rendition of "Look Down". Laurence Sterne also describes this beautiful locale in A Sentimental Journey.  Afterwards, we went to La Coupole, a site of which I was completely unaware before the trip.  La Coupole was a Nazi bunker complex where V-2 rockets were to be launched at London.  It's built into the side of a quarry and, as one fellow chaperone put it, looks like the Death Star embedded in the side of a mountain.  This was another place that words cannot describe.  A sign upon entry reads, "La Coupole was a place of suffering.  Today, it is a place of remembrance.  Europeans of nowadays, you who live on a continent at peace, please visit in SILENCE." 

Our time in France ended with an overnight stay in my new favorite city in France: St. Omer.  I vow to return there one day, pen and paper in hand.  If you want a place to be inspired to write, St. Omer will certainly fulfill your need.  We stayed in a hotel just off the central square, where restaurants, pubs, churches, and markets mingle.  I purchased pastries from a local chocolatier and fresh blueberries from the open air market.  I could see myself residing there, giving up my vehicle for a place where I could walk wherever I needed to go, writing in the creperies and coffee shops. 

Hemingway was always fond of France for writing.  He was certainly onto something.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43588/dover-beach
https://www.bayeuxmuseum.com/en/the-bayeux-tapestry/
https://www.lacoupole-france.co.uk/

Literary Travels, Part I

I recently chaperoned a school trip to Europe. The theme of the trip was WWI/WWII Battlefields, and I learned so much in the way I most enjoy learning: experientially.  It was, of course, a trip of stories, and I am grateful that this experience is part of mine.

Our first stop was London, England, a destination I'd traveled to once before and so was comfortable making time to see the literary sites I've longed to visit, even if it meant missing a few of the traditional highlights.

Before we left for the trip, the one place I was most excited to visit was Westminster Abbey.  On a past trip, I had stood outside the Abbey, and I so longed to go inside, in particular to see Poets' Corner.  If you've read enough of my blog, then you will know that Thomas Hardy is my literary husband.  From the moment I met Tess Durbeyfield, I was hooked.  I even completed an independent study in the works of Thomas Hardy whilst in graduate school, a course for which my only grade was an extensive research paper and oral defense on the relationship between women and the clergy in his novels.  Hardy's ashes (minus his heart, which is buried with his family) are interred at Poets' Corner, so it has been a dream of mine to stand in his presence.

You can imagine my absolute ecstasy as I walked through Westminster Abbey, standing in the presence of kings and queens, gazing upon the Coronation Chair, making my way to Poets' Corner.  I placed my hands on Chaucer's tomb, gazed at the memorial plaque to the Bronte sisters, and chuckled when I saw Oscar Wilde's name nearly out of sight (more on him later).

And yet, I could not find Thomas Hardy.  I walked in circles, scoffing at Ted Hughes (I have feelings on that one), pitying T.S. Eliot, admiring the acknowledgment of Jane Austen's genius.  No Thomas Hardy.  Finally I took a peek at my cell phone (no photos allowed--and I'm a bit of a rule follower, so I was keeping it tucked away) and Googled Thomas's location.  There it was in the photo--right next to Charles Dickens.

I spun around, found Dickens, and...ah, yes, of course.  Thomas Hardy's marble stone was covered with a piece of carpet and surrounded by orange caution cones connected by yellow tape.

His marble has recently been replaced.  The carpet, I learned from a docent who, before I could inquire, informed me that no, he could not move it, would be off in two weeks.

And so I stared at that carpet square--oh, how I stared--trying to have my moment with Thomas.  It didn't quite do it for me.

Though I didn't check this item off of my bucket list, I still had a lovely time in London.  I enjoyed a magical afternoon tea at Covent Garden, snapped pictures of The Savoy (with a dream of having tea here just as my darling Oscar Wilde did), saw the Crown Jewels, and toured the Churchill War Rooms.  London never truly disappoints.  Besides, now I have a pressing reason to return.  Perhaps third time's the charm?

Next stop: France

Reflection

Writing has been difficult lately.  When I write, I feel free; I know that life is pouring out of me, that someone's story is becoming known.  It's liberating, as if I've been holding the story inside of me to the point of bursting and then there is a sweet release.  Hemingway once wrote that after he finished writing, he felt an emptiness.  I know that feeling.  When I completed Sweet Divinity, I wept because I loved living with Amanda Jane--and now her story was on the paper and no longer solely in me.

But lately I've felt a different kind of empty.  It's a terrible feeling for a writer to feel alone, as if there are no characters living inside, no stories tucked down deep in the pit of her.  That's how I've felt since January.  There's been no liberation, no freedom, no feeling of release.  Emptiness.  I've been alone.  And I'm not sure I've truly been alone as a writer in all my thirty-nine years.  I remember writing stories from the time I could grip a pencil.  A recording exists of a single-digits me retelling the story of Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH.  As I've written on this blog, I am a vessel, a willing vessel, for stories.  And so this period of emptiness has been a trial.

I know what brought about this empty era, and like many trials of life, this one cannot be put aside or deflected: it must be lived through.  But I firmly believe that when you live through struggle, when you finally emerge on the other side, you come through with a story. 

And so will I.

In the meantime, I've decided to force myself to write.  I'm a little late to take on this discipline for Lent, but perhaps I'll begin my forty days today.  I've never gone in for the advice of "Write one thousand words every day" or "Don't eat.  Don't brush your teeth.  Get up and write."  But I'm wondering if those words are the advice of empty feeling writers.

I have come to realize that I am not empty.  It feels that way, sure, but it is not reality.  There is no dearth of story inside of me.  The stories are present within me; they are simply silenced.  I cannot let them remain untold.  It is my vocation as a writer to give these stories voice.

And so today I take on the challenge.  I am not empty.  I am very, very full.  My voice is important.  Words matter.  This I believe.

I believe in myself.

I am a writer.

Hello There!

Hello there!

I've been away from the blog for a bit now.  I've been working on some side projects and exploring some new interests...and I have been reading up a storm!  At the same time, I've been reflecting on myself as a writer and waiting patiently to see where inspiration will take me.

Great news for 2019: Sweet Divinity is confirmed for publication this year!  I'll be updating the blog with my journey through publishing now that I've made my way through the queue and on to the actual process of publication.  In the meantime, I'm exploring some stories that have been marinating in my mind, ready to make the keyboard hot with my follow-up novel!

In reflecting on the year that was 2018, there were certainly a few stand out moments for me.  I finally got to see Hamilton, and it surpassed my extremely high expectations in every way.  I am a person who likes to experience live theatre purely, so I made it a mission to avoid too much of the Hamilton soundtrack before I saw the musical for myself.  This decision ended up being a great one; I loved experiencing the genius of the music and lyrics for the first time, live.  Also, the staging of the show was some of the best I've seen.  And the touring cast was astounding.  What an experience.

I signed my contract in 2018, after years of seeking a publisher for my dear Sweet Divinity, and it was an amazing moment in my life.  It changed so much for me.  I felt affirmed in my writing and, much like the change that follows the birth of a child, I shifted many of my priorities to taking care of this novel and of my writing career.  Thus, I began freelancing and seeking more opportunities to write.

I read fifty books in 2018, a mix of fiction, biography, general nonfiction, memoir, young adult, poetry and drama.  I've already read five books this year, and my favorite so far has been Becoming, by Michelle Obama.  I already admired her in so many ways, but after reading her personal story, I admire her persistence, candor, and servant's heart even more.

I've also made it a point to see as many of the Oscar Best Picture films as possible, and I'm lacking only two: Vice and A Star is Born (I've been waiting for DVD with this one so that I can cry in the comfort of my home!).  I'm hoping to post my Oscar picks in the next week, but (fingers crossed) before I do, I want to get these two films in.  It's an odd collection of films this year, and I'm pretty sure I have my Best Picture prediction chosen, but I'll hold off a little longer and see if I can make a fully educated projection!

I have several personal goals this year.  Above all, I plan to write more.  I also plan to finish another novel and get a few thousand more words into Reliance.  I plan to travel and market Sweet Divinity.  I also vow to spend more time with myself.  More yoga.  More meditation.  More reading.  More listening.  More time in nature.

I hope 2019 is a beautiful year for you as well.  As my amazing sister-in-law loved to say: "Make it an epic life!"  Let's do this thing.

Christmas Traditions

Another Christmas has come and gone, and now it's time to focus on finishing this year's reading challenge on Goodreads and to make my New Year's resolutions.

But I couldn't let this Christmas season (which technically began yesterday and runs until Epiphany, for those of you who are keeping track) pass by without sharing our family's unique Christmas Eve tradition.

We take part in many common Christmas traditions.  We decorate, bake cookies, light the Advent wreath, keep up with an Advent calendar, leave cookies for Santa, and set out reindeer food.  But my favorite Christmas tradition is our annual Christmas Eve meal at Outback Steakhouse.

Stick with me.

When my husband and I were first married, we owned a little townhouse in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina.  We bought a cute little tree that I referred to as our "Charlie Brown Christmas Tree", and we decorated it with a few ornaments and a tiny strand of tinsel.  Two tiny gifts sat underneath the tree, which was perched on a cheap TV table.  We didn't have a lot of money, but I purchased a couple of steaks from the butcher and baked potatoes, ready for the grand debut of married life Christmas Eve dinner.

The potatoes were in the oven and I had just put the steaks on the stove top to sear when the power went out.  For no reason.  It wasn't raining.  There were no wind gusts.  It was a beautiful Christmas Eve.  With no power.

We waited for a few minutes as my heart broke apart even further--our first Christmas, and it was ruined.  And more so--I had wasted all of this money on the partially-seared steaks.

Eventually we had to admit that the power wasn't coming back on in time to salvage our meal, so we got in the car and agreed to stop at the first restaurant that was open and had power.  Lo and behold, the Outback Steakhouse sign illuminated the darkened sky!

And so, every year since, we've made it a tradition to have our Christmas Eve meal at Outback Steakhouse.  The kids have even gotten into the tradition, and they make us tell the story each year as we nosh on cheese fries and that wonderful, warm bread that soothed our bellies fifteen years ago.

Some holiday traditions come out of culture or even family backgrounds.  But often the most meaningful traditions are the ones we make for ourselves.  They remind us where we've been and help us keep perspective at a time of year when it is easy to lose.  Perhaps our meal at Outback Steakhouse doesn't seem as significant as lighting candles, singing traditional songs, or visiting family, but it certainly brings us together (except when we're fighting over the last cheese fry).

Slow Down, Lady

I am a person who goes one hundred miles an hour at all times.  Seriously, ask my students.  I decided early in my teaching career that if students didn't have time to get distracted, they wouldn't be a problem.  It's worked for me for fifteen years.  Additionally, I am passionate about that to which I dedicate myself.  Thus I get really, really excited...about teaching, about conversing, about puzzles, about baking, about music, about--well--everything. 

So I've lived my life at a rapid pace for some time now.  I get up each morning, get ready, dress my son, shoo my daughter downstairs, make breakfast for my son and self, throw together snacks for my day, get my son's teeth brushed, and drive my daughter to school (hubby handles our son--praise!).  At work, I get everything together for the day, perhaps run morning car line, teach classes, meet with students during "planning periods" about college essays or help with class, sit in club meetings at lunch, and then meet with students or fellow teachers after school.  I pick up my daughter, go to the gym (if there's time--there usually isn't), come home, cook dinner, get my son in the bath, dress him, read to him, check on my daughter's homework, get a shower myself, pick out clothes for tomorrow, and get in bed with a book.

This is a normal day for me, but I've come to realize it isn't normal.

I'm an over-committer.  And this pneumonia has been a swift kick in the rear, a reminder that I need to take care of myself.  Caring for myself isn't being selfish; it's being respectful of the gift of my body, my mind, and my emotions. 

I imagine a lot of you are over-committers, like me.  The real problem is that I genuinely want to do all of the things I've over-committed myself to doing.  None of it is a chore to me.  There's nothing I'd easily cut out.

And yet, I am certain that's what I'm being called to do.  To sand down the business of my life and leave time for myself.

Did you notice what was missing from my "daily routine"?  Writing.  And yet, as I've written here before, I am, at my core, a writer.  And in denying myself the time to write, I'm denying a bit of who I truly am.

In the past few days, as I've languished on the couch, unable to focus on writing and unable to do any work, I've watched amazing movies: Black Panther and Call Me By Your Name, read two books, and watched two Trevor Noah comedy specials, the pilot of The Man in the High Castle and the pilot of Victoria.  I love movies, and it's crazy to me that I'm just seeing these two.  I love reading, and yet I still need to read ten books to meet this year's goal.  I love escaping into comedy and into period dramas, and yet I don't take time for that either.  Amazingly, though I haven't felt like "myself", my high-speed, go-get-em self, for the last week, in some ways, I've felt more like myself.

My anxiety has decreased amazingly.  Granted, my chest still hurts, but it's not from anxiety.  I've cancelled almost everything on my calendar for the next two weeks, excepting church services, which feed my soul, and, of course, Hamilton.  And I'm finding that I'm okay with that.  I learned to own my "no" a long time ago, but being able to wield a "no" and knowing that you have to are two different things.  I'm grateful to be learning that now.

All of this is to say, that I encourage each one of you to take a look at your life right now.  Take inventory.  Write down your typical day and decide which parts of it are for the benefit of YOU--your physical, mental, and emotional health.  If you don't see it there, then I ask you to honor yourself and make some time.  Say "no", not because you want to, but because you need to.  And in so doing, you will say "yes" to yourself.