Archive for the ‘Books’ Category
November 16th, 2010
I’m late with this one, mainly because I didn’t want to write it. Terry McMillan’s Waiting to Exhale was beautiful; the characters were gorgeously written and each strong in their own right. So when word came that there was a sequel, so to speak, I was ecstatic. I was yearning to learn what happened to Robin, Savannah, Gloria, and Bernadine…so I anxiously awaited their return to my life.
In simple terms, I was disappointed. The story seemed rushed and contrived, and there ran an undercurrent of anger in the story. When I read, I don’t want to read anger, unless I purposely do so. The ladies in Getting to Happy again face major life disappointments (some seem so…I don’t know…out of character?), and once again rally together and find solace among in their friendship.
I know life happens; believe me, I’m beginning to know that more and more everyday. But even realistically, it seemed like Ms. McMillan woke up on morning and decided, “Let’s make Savannah’s husband a porn addict who isn’t worth shit! And while we are at it, let’s also make Bernadine’s daughter gay!” There was just too much pushed into this 400 page book, and by the time I reached midpoint, I was weary. The story no longer held my interest, and I no longer cared what happened to these women. That was a disappointment.
I am a huge fan of Terry McMillan. That’s why this was so hard to say, so hard to write. But this book missed me. I think it forgot to involve me in the story. In Waiting to Exhale, I felt Robin’s sigh when she decided to tell Russell to kick rocks; I cried with Bernadine when her husband chose the other woman; and I cheered for Gloria when she and Marvin hooked up. Getting to Happy holds no connection for me.
I will still read and buy Ms. McMillan’s books. The main reason is because Disappearing Acts is one of my favorite books, and I am waiting on her to recreate the magic that book had. Ms. McMillan has a distinct voice; it is the thing that set her apart from the rest. I just wish her to find that voice again and yell loudly from the rooftops that she won’t conform.
This book wasn’t about Getting to Happy; it was more like Getting to Bitter, Weary, and Disappointment.
My rating: 3/5 out of 5.
August 5th, 2010
When I was a teenager, I picked up a copy of Stephen King’s Christine. I began reading and was instantly drawn to his writing style; there are very few that can create the images he creates with his words. By the time I finished the book, I was absolutely terrified of any old cars, and not just the 1958 Plymouth Fury. I slept with my light on for a couple weeks, all because the book scared the holy hell out of me.
When I finally came to the realization that Christine was fictional and wasn’t going to run me down in the middle of the street, I calmed down. And I thought, that was a damned good book! (Of course, as a 13-year-old, I didn’t say ‘damned’, but you get the idea). What impressed me the most was the fact that I, as the reader, was placed in every single scene. I mean, I could hear the ticking of Christine’s engine, could feel the cold leather of her bench seats, and smell the oil dripping from it’s underside. That is the beauty of Stephen King’s writing.
With the book, On Writing, King once again scores. There is no gore here; no scary thoughts. Well, except for one. If you want to be a writer, you must write. I am amazed at how many people, including myself, get hung up on this cardinal rule. This idea is pretty central in On Writing, and every bit of information that accompanies this central thought does an excellent job of supporting that theory.
On Writing is really two books in one: the first part being a semi-autobiographical account of how King honed his skills from a boy growing up in Maine to the writer he is today (and by today, I mean the year 2000). It is an interesting account; King uncovered his writing passion early and despite the rejections, kept writing. I think most writers can attest to this part; rejection is part of the game. But if writing is truly in your blood, truly something you dream, eat, and breathe for, then the rejection is not so bad.
The second part digs down into the nitty-gritty. There are certain things that writers need in order to write successfully. King does an excellent job of using his own experiences to dole out the wisdom of writing to those of us who aspire to become authors and novelists. This book helped me to build my ‘toolbox,’ and if even possible, become more and more committed to writing regularly.
The best piece of advice that I got from the book? Fear is at the root of bad writing. If a writer is timid, or writing for themselves, 9 out of 10 times the writing is going to suck, big time. If a writer writes for the pure enjoyment of it, for the state of euphoria they get from seeing words come together in sentences, the writing overcomes the fear, and wins.
My copy of On Writing, right now, is dog-eared and marked up with pencil and pen marks throughout. I purchased this book a month ago, and it has become one of those books that I keep on my desk, instead of propped up on my book shelf. The information contained is that valuable, that worthy.
If, however, you are looking for a book that gives you a step-by-step process to write the perfect novel, don’t read it. That is not what writing is about; each writer, if you ask them, has their own process, their own way of doing things that fits them and their personality. As a writer, you must decide what is best for you…and then just do it.
I highly recommend this book to anyone who loves a good story, and to anyone who wants to be a writer. Like King says, “Writing is magic, as much as the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink.”¹
That pretty much sums it up.
Resources:
¹King, Stephen. (2000). On Writing. New York, NY: Pocket Books.
July 5th, 2010
I purchased a book shelf a while ago, and just put it together this weekend. I have about 9 boxes of books in my office closet, waiting to be lined up on the shelves and perhaps, plucked from their comfortable spot and cracked open. In every room of my home, and even in my car, you will find a book.
I love books.
I remember as early back as Judy Blume’s Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. This book opened up a world to me that I was unaware of. I thought, You mean to tell me that other 12-year-old girls are going through the same thing as me? It was incredible, and I was hooked. When I started thinking about romance, Forever was there. It was the book that let me know that what I was holding was a treasure not to be shared with just anyone. Judy Blume can probably be credited to opening my eyes to writing, and reading, and loving them both.
As a teenager I read Roots and another door was opened. Reading it from cover to cover, before the benefit of the much-watched television miniseries, helped to bring me closer to my blackness. I remember thinking that I was such a big deal because I was reading it, what with it being a huge book that spanned generations and generations. What I learned was that I could not go where I was going, unless I knew where I came from. I was the child of warriors and strong matriarchs, and I was also a Queen.
Then I became fascinated with the world of The Chronicles of Narnia, the series by C S Lewis. You could not tell me that a world existed on the other side of my own closet, because I frequently went there when my head was in these books. I saw things differently, I felt things differently, and I realized that I loved books that told me a story, real or unimaginable or downright delusional. It was the words within that I sought; I craved to be able to string the words together and have them mean something to me.
I found meaning in The Autobiography of Malcolm X. I was handed this book by my English teacher in high school, Ms. Mallory. Ms. Mallory gave this book to me and told me that it was going to change my life. See, she knew how much I loved reading, but from her point of view, I had an unrealistic expectation that everything would work out in the end. She saw that I needed the fairy tale, and this book would provide me with a reality. And reality is exactly what I got. I learned that life is not about the destination, but about the journey. This book set me on a course of discovering my purpose.
There were others that rocked my world. Waiting to Exhale was my introduction to the mirror image of my own life. It was about friendships and love, and the fact that sometimes people fail and make wrong choices. Temple of My Familiar helped me jump, fully clothed and open, into being a woman. Hot Johnny (And The Women Who Loved Him) was hotness incarnate; the words and images leaped off the pages into my head and heart. And Sugar took me back in time, to a place that I didn’t understand but wanted to learn more about.
There are so many more titles and authors. There are so many other stories that have shaped me into who I am today. What I ultimately discovered about myself, in reading all of these books, is that I love the craft of writing. I’ve read countless things over the years that have told me that of course, I can write a book. Anyone can write a book; but can I tell a story? Can I hold the attention of the readers who, like me, are looking for a definition or epiphany?
It is this thought that pops into my head when I sit down and write my own novel. I don’t want it to be something that is read and forgotten; I want it to breathe and live and attach itself to the hearts and minds of everyone who reads a single word. Reading is my salvation; I know that that is also the truth for so many others. All of the books that I have waiting on me to put them into the emptiness of my new book shelf have affected me in some way. There are promises, secrets, joy, sadness, and disgust left by my fingerprints on the pages.
Most of all, there is love there. And that love demands to be let out of the boxes that have kept it hidden for too long. So here at 2:40 in the AM, I am off to gently organize those books on my book shelf.
And be reminded once again of my love for each and every one of these books.
