A few weeks ago I went into my local public library to the section where the short stories had been housed only to discover that the section had disappeared. When I queried the librarian I was told that no one reads short fiction and that the materials had been moved into the main fiction section.
I thought to myself , if no one reads short fiction then why do magazines like the New Yorker continue to publish it?
So, with this fact in mind the best author you are not reading is a gentleman by the name of Paolo Bacigalupi. Yes, I know, perhaps it’s his name that is the problem. If you can’t pronounce it much less spell it, it is pretty hard to ask for him in a bookstore or library.
He has the most fabulous collection of short stories. Most of the time after I’ve read something I tend to forget what I’ve read a few days later. I read this particular collection of short stories about six months ago and at least two of the stories remain vivid in my mind. They are science fiction but please don’t let this stop you. Go ahead try something different. Dive into these works and experience these meticulously crafted stories. Some of them will disturb you but I can guarantee that you won’t be bored.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Luddite quilter
I am a long time quilter, I started quilting in 1984. Back in the day we used plastic templates and a lot, though not all of us hand pieced our quilts. I was and am a happy hand piecer. I love making quilts and while none of them will ever win a prize most of my quilts look pretty good. I find the quilting process to be soothing and almost zen like. However a friend persuaded me to take a quilting class by machine. I needed to spring forth into the 21sr century, she said. I had too much fabric and would never use even a tenth of it unless I learned to machine piece, she said. It’s easy to learn, she said.
So I signed up for and recently completed a ten week course beginning machine piecing quilt class billed as a “fun” class. All I can say is that I did not have fun. I had nightmares, I broke down into crying jags, my cats hid and my spouse almost divorced me. My only consolation was that another student in the class also had the same symptoms and that we both survived.
Some evenings striving for the elusive perfect ¼ inch seam so that my quilt block would “square up” seemed to me to be akin to being on the front lines in a war zone with no knowledge on how to shoot a gun or, in my case, operate my sewing machine. I lived in a constant state of terror and stress. On a rare occasion I’d get a block right and it was if I’d just come in first in the New York marathon. Most nights were not like this. Most nights were spent sobbing, pleading and bargaining with my machine. Being heartless it ignored me.
The experience has led me to the following conclusions
1. If I use two ply thread I may attempt a machine pieced wall hanging. The fabric I use will be quite ugly so I will not have to sorrow after my beautiful fabrics lost in a bizarre and senseless death under the rotary cutter’s blade.
2. Most of my quilts will continue to be made via hand and anyone worried about my excessive fabric may remain mum on the subject.
3. Zen like states cannot be achieved at the machine though a dangerous rise in blood pressure can. Somehow I think this info could be used in a good murder mystery plot …
So I’m about to begin a queen sized churn dash and a little part of me is thinking…churn dash is pretty straight forward. I could piece this on the machine but then I look at the trusting face of the one cat who finally ventured out from under the couch and think nah…. Somebody has to be the last hand piecer in the world and I’m okay with that.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Book club snob
I have belonged to book clubs off and on for several years and finally found one that fits me. I’ll have to admit it is all women which is quite the change from some of the testosterone book clubs I’ve been in. Book clubs are much like any other group meeting and I’ll be sexist and say it men tend to dominate more than women.
Even in our nice “little ladies who sew “book club though there will always be one or two opinionated individuals who speak more than others, and, I admit, sometimes that person is me. (Okay it is frequently me and I know I annoy others….)There is going to be the person who just wants everyone to get along and who only wants to hear nice things about the book and, a bit more socializing than perhaps would be tolerated in other book clubs also occurs.
Our books tend to fall into "Oprah" inspirational, you should be getting a message from this book"; women's fiction; or theme books of some sort. World War II seems to be a recurring theme. I don’t know if this is because there are just a lot of WWII books out there or if we tend to gravitate more to that type of historical fiction. Rarely though are the books going to be ones that will survive the test of time, that will continue to be read and discussed into the next century and I’m afraid this is where my snobbishness shows. You may legitimately shake a finger at the self professed genre reader ( I know zombie books, how can I be a snob?) but I always feel a little like I’m slumming with the Jody Picoult and the Jennifer Chiaverini type books.
However, I have a confession to make, sometimes even though we aren’t reading Dostoyevsky or James Joyce I still find one or two of the books that really move me. I forget to be a snobby little snot and simply become engrossed in a story. One of those was the Book Thief and another was last month’s selection The Help. I know this book will be forgotten in 20 years but the author made the characters seem so alive I didn’t want the book to end, I wanted to continue to peer into their lives until I knew everything about them, what they’d be like in 10 years, if they would survive the changes they were undergoing. The story is basically about three women, two black and one white in a small Southern town in the early 1960s. The two women are maids and the white woman persuades these women to tell stories about their working life and by doing so exposing the cruelties done to other human beings based solely on the color of their skin. Some of the things done are so difficult to believe that you think “well this is fiction” and yet the author forces you to understand that these horrible things did happen just through the use of simple narrative on the part of the characters.
I guess what I’m trying to say is read this book, don’t be like me and be a little snot and think that just because a book is a best seller does not mean that it is merit-less. You may very well find a diamond in amongst the rhinestones. Even if you don't maybe you'll still just have a good read and sometimes that's enough.
Even in our nice “little ladies who sew “book club though there will always be one or two opinionated individuals who speak more than others, and, I admit, sometimes that person is me. (Okay it is frequently me and I know I annoy others….)There is going to be the person who just wants everyone to get along and who only wants to hear nice things about the book and, a bit more socializing than perhaps would be tolerated in other book clubs also occurs.
Our books tend to fall into "Oprah" inspirational, you should be getting a message from this book"; women's fiction; or theme books of some sort. World War II seems to be a recurring theme. I don’t know if this is because there are just a lot of WWII books out there or if we tend to gravitate more to that type of historical fiction. Rarely though are the books going to be ones that will survive the test of time, that will continue to be read and discussed into the next century and I’m afraid this is where my snobbishness shows. You may legitimately shake a finger at the self professed genre reader ( I know zombie books, how can I be a snob?) but I always feel a little like I’m slumming with the Jody Picoult and the Jennifer Chiaverini type books.
However, I have a confession to make, sometimes even though we aren’t reading Dostoyevsky or James Joyce I still find one or two of the books that really move me. I forget to be a snobby little snot and simply become engrossed in a story. One of those was the Book Thief and another was last month’s selection The Help. I know this book will be forgotten in 20 years but the author made the characters seem so alive I didn’t want the book to end, I wanted to continue to peer into their lives until I knew everything about them, what they’d be like in 10 years, if they would survive the changes they were undergoing. The story is basically about three women, two black and one white in a small Southern town in the early 1960s. The two women are maids and the white woman persuades these women to tell stories about their working life and by doing so exposing the cruelties done to other human beings based solely on the color of their skin. Some of the things done are so difficult to believe that you think “well this is fiction” and yet the author forces you to understand that these horrible things did happen just through the use of simple narrative on the part of the characters.
I guess what I’m trying to say is read this book, don’t be like me and be a little snot and think that just because a book is a best seller does not mean that it is merit-less. You may very well find a diamond in amongst the rhinestones. Even if you don't maybe you'll still just have a good read and sometimes that's enough.
Monday, April 05, 2010
Anticipation
The past week has been a rainy blustery sort of week which, for this time of year, is not all that unusual.
There was something about this past week though that reminded me of my childhood Marchs spent in Colorado. Perhaps it was the high wind or the sly promises of sun.
When I was little I looked forward to spring the way many small children looked forward to Christmas. I hated being cold. I also hated the lack of any discernable color. Winters in Colorado are ugly. Don't let anyone sell you a picture postcard full of gentle white mounds of snow and lacy snowflakes floating down. The reality is that we have thin dry snow, so no pretty lacy snowflakes, which melts quickly once the sun does come out. It also means slushy dirty streets, bare patches of dried dun colored grasses and bare spindly trees. Everywhere there is that ugly, nasty dun color, not a spot of color to be seen.
Every year though I knew that at the end of March, the beginning of April there would be a warm spell. I'd watch for it, my whole body quivering with the promise of warmth. When that warm spell hit (a warm spell being anything over 45 degrees) I'd run outside, sit on my front stoop and watch our Ash tree in the front yard start to bud with that wonderful chartreuse green that all young growth seems to have. I’d scour the ground in my mother’s flower bed to get the first glimpse of grape hyacinth. I'd sit there until my mother hollered at me to come in and put on a jacket before I caught my death of a cold but still I'd sit until the stoop began to cool as the sun moved on its way.
As an adult, living in Northern California, I don't get to have that heightened sense of anticipation, that sense that something is going to change , that there is going to be a little magic in the air. There is always color here even on the greyest day. Like the child who knows Santa isn't real, the exquisiteness of the anticipation is gone. Don't get me wrong, I still tear into my present of sunshine as I watch the daffodils and freesia come up but with just a hint of jadedness as I sit on my front stoop and that's too bad.
There was something about this past week though that reminded me of my childhood Marchs spent in Colorado. Perhaps it was the high wind or the sly promises of sun.
When I was little I looked forward to spring the way many small children looked forward to Christmas. I hated being cold. I also hated the lack of any discernable color. Winters in Colorado are ugly. Don't let anyone sell you a picture postcard full of gentle white mounds of snow and lacy snowflakes floating down. The reality is that we have thin dry snow, so no pretty lacy snowflakes, which melts quickly once the sun does come out. It also means slushy dirty streets, bare patches of dried dun colored grasses and bare spindly trees. Everywhere there is that ugly, nasty dun color, not a spot of color to be seen.
Every year though I knew that at the end of March, the beginning of April there would be a warm spell. I'd watch for it, my whole body quivering with the promise of warmth. When that warm spell hit (a warm spell being anything over 45 degrees) I'd run outside, sit on my front stoop and watch our Ash tree in the front yard start to bud with that wonderful chartreuse green that all young growth seems to have. I’d scour the ground in my mother’s flower bed to get the first glimpse of grape hyacinth. I'd sit there until my mother hollered at me to come in and put on a jacket before I caught my death of a cold but still I'd sit until the stoop began to cool as the sun moved on its way.
As an adult, living in Northern California, I don't get to have that heightened sense of anticipation, that sense that something is going to change , that there is going to be a little magic in the air. There is always color here even on the greyest day. Like the child who knows Santa isn't real, the exquisiteness of the anticipation is gone. Don't get me wrong, I still tear into my present of sunshine as I watch the daffodils and freesia come up but with just a hint of jadedness as I sit on my front stoop and that's too bad.
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