Don’t even try to talk to me right now. I’m going nuts.
It’s Game Six of the American League Championship Series, I’m a diehard Yankees fan, and as I type this the Los Angeles Angels are winning 1-0. By the time you read this, the score will have changed—I HOPE!—but this particular moment is so excruciatingly endless I can’t look. Or breathe.
Why do I care about baseball so much if it hurts my stomach and ruins my fingernails (because I chew them when I’m nervous)? Good question. Really, it’s one I ask myself every year, as soon as the baseball season is over, and I think back on all the minutes I wasted following every pitch. And of course every spring I vow to give up my addiction to baseball, and take up something relatively sane, like bungee-jumping.
But of course I won’t.
Everybody has a weird secret obsession. Mine is baseball.
Go Yankees!
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Where Girls Are Right Now
Earlier this week I read an article in The New Yorker about Alloy Entertainment, a big company which proposes ideas for teen and tween novels. According to Alloy’s editorial director, “More serious, angsty literature is where girls are right now. Morbid, dead-girl lit.”
When I read that sentence, my first reaction was: Dead-girl lit? How gross.
My second reaction was: How sad.
My third was: How boring.
Because I don’t think that we all need to be writing one particular kind of novel. And I also believe that the best novels, the ones we tend to reread, have more than just one dimension. My personal favorites are usually funny/angsty or funny/serious hybrids. And I always want to read about complex, vibrant characters, not about heroines who are literally or metaphorically "dead."
When I hear from girl readers, I get the impression that they’re looking for smart, entertaining books that are true to life—not “morbid, dead-girl lit.” But maybe nobody (including me) should generalize about “where girls are right now.” It’s probably true that by next week they’ll be somewhere else, anyway.
When I read that sentence, my first reaction was: Dead-girl lit? How gross.
My second reaction was: How sad.
My third was: How boring.
Because I don’t think that we all need to be writing one particular kind of novel. And I also believe that the best novels, the ones we tend to reread, have more than just one dimension. My personal favorites are usually funny/angsty or funny/serious hybrids. And I always want to read about complex, vibrant characters, not about heroines who are literally or metaphorically "dead."
When I hear from girl readers, I get the impression that they’re looking for smart, entertaining books that are true to life—not “morbid, dead-girl lit.” But maybe nobody (including me) should generalize about “where girls are right now.” It’s probably true that by next week they’ll be somewhere else, anyway.
Friday, October 9, 2009
White Space
Some people judge books by their covers. I judge books by the amount of white space on the page.
White space means there’s plenty of dialogue. NOT painfully long descriptions of architecture and geography, or maybe a heroine’s tortured thought process—but characters talking. Interacting. Joking. Arguing.
Those are the kinds of books I like to read. Also the kinds of books I try to write.
And to me, one of the best writers of dialogue is the English author Hilary McKay. If you haven’t already discovered her funny and touching Casson family series—Saffy’s Angel, Indigo’s Star, Forever Rose, Caddy Ever After—run to your library and raid the shelves. Because you’ll never read livelier, more natural dialogue: this is a family of strong, quirky individuals who constantly interrupt each other, finish each other’s thoughts, tease and fight and praise. Every member of the Casson family—and each one of their friends—has a completely distinctive voice. And when they simply TALK to each other, it’s like reading an action sequence.
I happen to think the first book (Saffy’s Angel) is the best. But when you read it, I promise you’ll need to read the other three in the series —and you’ll be sorry to get to the end of all that magical white space.
White space means there’s plenty of dialogue. NOT painfully long descriptions of architecture and geography, or maybe a heroine’s tortured thought process—but characters talking. Interacting. Joking. Arguing.
Those are the kinds of books I like to read. Also the kinds of books I try to write.
And to me, one of the best writers of dialogue is the English author Hilary McKay. If you haven’t already discovered her funny and touching Casson family series—Saffy’s Angel, Indigo’s Star, Forever Rose, Caddy Ever After—run to your library and raid the shelves. Because you’ll never read livelier, more natural dialogue: this is a family of strong, quirky individuals who constantly interrupt each other, finish each other’s thoughts, tease and fight and praise. Every member of the Casson family—and each one of their friends—has a completely distinctive voice. And when they simply TALK to each other, it’s like reading an action sequence.
I happen to think the first book (Saffy’s Angel) is the best. But when you read it, I promise you’ll need to read the other three in the series —and you’ll be sorry to get to the end of all that magical white space.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Olivers
This morning I took a long walk—and wished I had a dog.
Every fall this happens to me. I guess there’s something about crunching through autumn leaves that just fills me with dog-yearning. Because brisk walks in crisp air with a cute, scruffy pal running ahead…well, it just seems right, you know?
I also have dog-yearning every time I see a Frisbee. Every time I go to the beach, too.
Also, and most dangerously: every time I meet a puppy.
Weirdly, this past month I met two adorable puppies both named Oliver. One Oliver was a yellow Lab with big brown eyes and ridiculously big paws. The other Oliver was a Yorkie no bigger than—I’m serious!—a Beanie Baby. (I know because the owner let me hold him for a minute.)
I suppose if I could have a part-time puppy (house-trained, thanks) who played Frisbee on the beach and walked with me in crunchy leaves I’d POSSIBLY consider getting a dog.
That is, if my two cats, who run this house, voted yes.
Every fall this happens to me. I guess there’s something about crunching through autumn leaves that just fills me with dog-yearning. Because brisk walks in crisp air with a cute, scruffy pal running ahead…well, it just seems right, you know?
I also have dog-yearning every time I see a Frisbee. Every time I go to the beach, too.
Also, and most dangerously: every time I meet a puppy.
Weirdly, this past month I met two adorable puppies both named Oliver. One Oliver was a yellow Lab with big brown eyes and ridiculously big paws. The other Oliver was a Yorkie no bigger than—I’m serious!—a Beanie Baby. (I know because the owner let me hold him for a minute.)
I suppose if I could have a part-time puppy (house-trained, thanks) who played Frisbee on the beach and walked with me in crunchy leaves I’d POSSIBLY consider getting a dog.
That is, if my two cats, who run this house, voted yes.
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