I think there's some kind of poetic symmetry at work here (unintentionally!). My book for this month was The Remarkable Life and Times of Eliza Rose by Mary Hooper, which tells the story of a girl in 17th-century England who's been turned out of her home by the woman she thought was her stepmother and so goes to London to try to make her way in the world. It occurred to me as I was reading that the book is a great companion to the first book I read this year, No Shame, No Fear by Ann Turnbull and its sequel, Forged in the Fire. All three books take place in London in the mid- to late-1660's, but the characters' experiences of London are very different, shaped by who they are.
When Eliza's story starts, she's in Clink Prison for attempting to steal a pasty, since she's hungry, with no one to provide for her. While in prison, another girl teaches her to beg from passersby, giving the girls some money to buy "luxuries" (like a bed up off the floor) for themselves. Eventually, Eliza is bailed out of jail by a woman with less than honorable motives: Ma Gwyn, owner of a bawdy house and mother of the actress Nell Gwyn, who has as her ambition to become a mistress to King Charles II.
Nell rescues Eliza from Ma Gwyn's nefarious schemes, and Eliza acts as her maid as Nell pursues the opportunity to sleep with the king. She quickly succeeds, and when she becomes pregnant with the king's child, he sets her (and Eliza) up in a respectable brick house. Eliza, however, realizes how precarious their lifestyle is, and she longs for her own place in the world. Eventually, the mystery of Eliza's true family is solved, and she gets what she wished for.
Eliza Rose is filled with people who flaunt an immoral lifestyle: King Charles, who maintains multiple mistresses with no attempt to hide their existence from his wife; Nell Gwyn, who aggressively seeks to become one of those mistresses; Charles Duval, the celebrated highwayman; the king's "gang of wits," a group of young men who appear to spend most if not all of their time drinking, gambling, and bedding any woman they can. While Eliza manages to stay pure (for the most part - she does get involved in a scheme with Duval), she has a very ambivalent attitude toward the immorality, accepting and supporting Nell's quest for the king.
What a contast to the lifestyle of Susanna and Will in Turnbull's books! Their whole existence is defined by their religious beliefs. They both spend time in prison too, but their only crime is being a "Dissenter." Though they are strongly attracted to each other, they understand and accept that their attraction is going to be satisfied only within marriage. When they do fall to their desire, the first thing that occupies Will's attention afterward is finding work so he can marry Susanna and support her as soon as possible. I think it's kind of interesting to realize that if Will hadn't chosen to become a Quaker, he might have had a lifestyle similar to that of the king's "gang of wits" (though probably not quite as libertine, since he would be of the merchant class).
I'm fascinated by the thought that these characters are walking the same streets, but that their lives are so different. As Will says in Forged in the Fire, "I stooped and looked out over a spread of rooftops, jetties, innumerable chimneys with smoke rising up, and, far below, people thronging in the darkening streets. . . .So many people live in this city, I thought, so many other lives." Some of these lives, like Nell Gwyn's, are lived in pursuit of worldly pleasures; some, like Will and Susanna, have higher aims. Each book is just a little "slice of life" -- one person's limited experience of the huge megacosm that was London in the late 1660's. Putting their stories together helps me understand the richness and complexity of life - then and now- a little better.
I love historical fiction!!
Friday, December 21, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
A Little Jewel
I'm a sucker for bargain books. When I found The Matchlock Gun by Walter D. Edmonds as a bargain book, I picked it up for the kids, knowing nothing about it but that it was a Newberry winner. I'm so glad I did. I'm also glad that one of the kids "forgot" to put it back on the bookshelf so that it was lying on the kitchen table last Saturday while I was eating my lunch. I idly opened to the first page and was quickly enthralled.
This is a retelling of a true story from the pioneer days of New York State, when there was no "United States." The French and Indians are sweeping down into the frontier settlements, burning homes and killing settlers in the outlying areas. The book begins when Teunis Van Alstyne is leaving home for militia duty because of rumors of more raids. He leaves his wife, Gertrude, and their two young children home alone with reassurances that the militia will stop the Indians before they could threaten the Van Alstyne home.
He's wrong. Fortunately, one of the militia men is able to warn Gertrude that Indians are near, and the rest of the book relates the story of the plan Gertrude makes to protect her family using the only weapon they had available -- an antique Spanish gun that none of them are strong enough to hold.
I was impressed as I read it by the ingenuity and courage that Gertrude showed, and by the discipline and courage 10-year-old Edward showed. If either of them had failed, the entire family would no doubt have been murdered. But they don't fail, and the story lived on, handed down generation to generation until Walter Edmonds came across it and wrote it in a book.
I like this kind of story. It gives me new appreciation for what the pioneers did. Sure, we look back on it now and judge it as ethically wrong to push the Native Americans off their land. But you've got to admire the individuals who stuck with it through hardship for the dream of a better life for their families.
Something else I think is funny in this story -- Gertrude refused to go to her mother-in-law's brick house. She says it's because she thinks they'll be just as safe at their own home, but I can read between the lines -- there's no love lost between those two women. Gertrude would rather face the Indians alone than knuckle under to her mother-in-law!
This is a retelling of a true story from the pioneer days of New York State, when there was no "United States." The French and Indians are sweeping down into the frontier settlements, burning homes and killing settlers in the outlying areas. The book begins when Teunis Van Alstyne is leaving home for militia duty because of rumors of more raids. He leaves his wife, Gertrude, and their two young children home alone with reassurances that the militia will stop the Indians before they could threaten the Van Alstyne home.
He's wrong. Fortunately, one of the militia men is able to warn Gertrude that Indians are near, and the rest of the book relates the story of the plan Gertrude makes to protect her family using the only weapon they had available -- an antique Spanish gun that none of them are strong enough to hold.
I was impressed as I read it by the ingenuity and courage that Gertrude showed, and by the discipline and courage 10-year-old Edward showed. If either of them had failed, the entire family would no doubt have been murdered. But they don't fail, and the story lived on, handed down generation to generation until Walter Edmonds came across it and wrote it in a book.
I like this kind of story. It gives me new appreciation for what the pioneers did. Sure, we look back on it now and judge it as ethically wrong to push the Native Americans off their land. But you've got to admire the individuals who stuck with it through hardship for the dream of a better life for their families.
Something else I think is funny in this story -- Gertrude refused to go to her mother-in-law's brick house. She says it's because she thinks they'll be just as safe at their own home, but I can read between the lines -- there's no love lost between those two women. Gertrude would rather face the Indians alone than knuckle under to her mother-in-law!
Like A Box of Saltine Crackers
I just spent the last month working my way through Broken Bonds: The First Book of the Trevu Trilogy by FJ Warren. And like a box of saltine crackers, this book gave me something to chew on, but not a lot of the "nutrition" and flavor I'd like to get from my reading.
This book is the beginning of one of those sprawling "family" sagas that go through the experiences of several generations. In this case, the family is that of Captain Redvers Trevarthen, a mining magnate in Cornwall at the turn of the nineteenth century. This part of the saga picks up when Redvers' illegitimate son has been dropped on his doorstep. To make things interesting, the baby is mulatto, the result of Redvers' long-standing affair with an independent black woman in the nearby town. Despite the fact the baby was born in adultery, Redvers' wife insists that they keep him. The book then follows the developments of young Paul Trevarthen's life to the point where he becomes the master of Trevu (the family estate). This novel strongly reminds me of some of the "gothic" novels I read while growing up -- there's plenty of hob-nobbing in society, titillating action, illicit unions, forbidden love, and family secrets.
But maybe there's too much! You know you can choke on crackers if you shove too many in your mouth at once. The plot seems to meander along at times, with periods of intense action followed by equally-long description of the less exciting times of Paul's life. There's also a secondary plot concerning a young smuggler that is a little confusing because there's not a clear designation when the story switches from one plotline to the other. Clearly, this story is a setup for the rest of the trilogy in which events will be played out to a dramatic conclusion. I guess I'm wondering if it might have all fit in two books if some of the more mundane plot points had been left out. Maybe I'm becoming a child of the "instant gratification" society, but why should I have to munch through the whole box of dry cereal to get to the prize at the bottom of the box? (sorry for switching my analogy)
I wasn't really that enthralled with the main character, Paul; I thought he was spoiled and whiny. The smuggler, Joey Bolitho, was much more compelling to me. I found myself sort of attracted to him in a perverse way, despite the fact that he kills men with his bare hands. He's got a really interesting psyche, does Joey, but he doesn't get much time on the field in this story. I suppose he'll play a bigger role in the rest of the trilogy (because there are some pretty heavy-handed hints at the end of the story that Joey is more than he seems).
This book is Paul's story, though. I thought there was a missed opportunity to discuss the social consequences of being mulatto in the early 19th century. When Paul is a child, he faces discrimination for being dark-skinned; however, once he comes into young adulthood and is rich and good-looking, suddenly everyone (except the villain) seems to forget about it. I'm not so sure that's realistic. People might have been nice to him to his face, but I bet there would at least be some nasty remarks behind the closed doors of "withdrawing rooms." The same is true of his mother. At the time of Paul's birth, she is shunned by everyone in town (except Redvers' saintly wife). However, when Paul is grown, she comes back into his life as a respected and rich business owner. Everyone in town now treats her like anyone else. That just seems unrealistic to me. Then again, this book is not meaty social commentary; it is a family saga meant for entertainment and snacking.
I have to admit, one thing that made the book seem as dry to me as crackers was the "tell, not show" style in which it was written. Let me give an example. There is a scene where poor Joey is proposing to the woman he loves. Here's how it plays out in the book:
"Sitting quietly at the table with his beloved, he began to relate to her his wish to give up the smuggling, for he knew she detested it so. She made a favorable reply so he took a deep breath and proceeded to tell her that his circumstances were about to undergo a change. Explaining that if he accepted Barney's offer he would have to move away, he delicately informed her that he understood full well that she would not wish to leave her family during her father's sickness, but he would be quite prepared to wait for her until such time as it would be appropriate for her to do so."
No, no, no! I don't want you to tell me about that moment! I want to be able to experience it! I want to hear the words Joey says, to see his posture and the look on his face, to feel the earnestness with which he's making his plea. This is a very dramatic moment in the subplot -- play it up!
In all fairness to the author, there is another scene where Joey's beloved is once again turning down his marriage proposal, and it does a much better job of showing the action and allowing us to feel sympathy for both characters.
So, anyway, the box of crackers is finally all gone, and I'm ready to move on to something with a little more flavor and staying power.
This book is the beginning of one of those sprawling "family" sagas that go through the experiences of several generations. In this case, the family is that of Captain Redvers Trevarthen, a mining magnate in Cornwall at the turn of the nineteenth century. This part of the saga picks up when Redvers' illegitimate son has been dropped on his doorstep. To make things interesting, the baby is mulatto, the result of Redvers' long-standing affair with an independent black woman in the nearby town. Despite the fact the baby was born in adultery, Redvers' wife insists that they keep him. The book then follows the developments of young Paul Trevarthen's life to the point where he becomes the master of Trevu (the family estate). This novel strongly reminds me of some of the "gothic" novels I read while growing up -- there's plenty of hob-nobbing in society, titillating action, illicit unions, forbidden love, and family secrets.
But maybe there's too much! You know you can choke on crackers if you shove too many in your mouth at once. The plot seems to meander along at times, with periods of intense action followed by equally-long description of the less exciting times of Paul's life. There's also a secondary plot concerning a young smuggler that is a little confusing because there's not a clear designation when the story switches from one plotline to the other. Clearly, this story is a setup for the rest of the trilogy in which events will be played out to a dramatic conclusion. I guess I'm wondering if it might have all fit in two books if some of the more mundane plot points had been left out. Maybe I'm becoming a child of the "instant gratification" society, but why should I have to munch through the whole box of dry cereal to get to the prize at the bottom of the box? (sorry for switching my analogy)
I wasn't really that enthralled with the main character, Paul; I thought he was spoiled and whiny. The smuggler, Joey Bolitho, was much more compelling to me. I found myself sort of attracted to him in a perverse way, despite the fact that he kills men with his bare hands. He's got a really interesting psyche, does Joey, but he doesn't get much time on the field in this story. I suppose he'll play a bigger role in the rest of the trilogy (because there are some pretty heavy-handed hints at the end of the story that Joey is more than he seems).
This book is Paul's story, though. I thought there was a missed opportunity to discuss the social consequences of being mulatto in the early 19th century. When Paul is a child, he faces discrimination for being dark-skinned; however, once he comes into young adulthood and is rich and good-looking, suddenly everyone (except the villain) seems to forget about it. I'm not so sure that's realistic. People might have been nice to him to his face, but I bet there would at least be some nasty remarks behind the closed doors of "withdrawing rooms." The same is true of his mother. At the time of Paul's birth, she is shunned by everyone in town (except Redvers' saintly wife). However, when Paul is grown, she comes back into his life as a respected and rich business owner. Everyone in town now treats her like anyone else. That just seems unrealistic to me. Then again, this book is not meaty social commentary; it is a family saga meant for entertainment and snacking.
I have to admit, one thing that made the book seem as dry to me as crackers was the "tell, not show" style in which it was written. Let me give an example. There is a scene where poor Joey is proposing to the woman he loves. Here's how it plays out in the book:
"Sitting quietly at the table with his beloved, he began to relate to her his wish to give up the smuggling, for he knew she detested it so. She made a favorable reply so he took a deep breath and proceeded to tell her that his circumstances were about to undergo a change. Explaining that if he accepted Barney's offer he would have to move away, he delicately informed her that he understood full well that she would not wish to leave her family during her father's sickness, but he would be quite prepared to wait for her until such time as it would be appropriate for her to do so."
No, no, no! I don't want you to tell me about that moment! I want to be able to experience it! I want to hear the words Joey says, to see his posture and the look on his face, to feel the earnestness with which he's making his plea. This is a very dramatic moment in the subplot -- play it up!
In all fairness to the author, there is another scene where Joey's beloved is once again turning down his marriage proposal, and it does a much better job of showing the action and allowing us to feel sympathy for both characters.
So, anyway, the box of crackers is finally all gone, and I'm ready to move on to something with a little more flavor and staying power.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Entry for October 21, 2007 - Why Didn't I Love This Book?
The book in question is The Moorchild by Eloise McGraw. You may notice that it's been two months since I posted any reading responses. Part of that is because school started again and the workload picked up considerably, part of that is because I've been obsessed with editing my own work, but part of the problem is I could not get into reading The Moorchild. It took me six weeks to read the book, honest, when I read the latest Harry Potter book (four times the size) in a matter of hours.
Why? I was absolutely captured by the first chapter -- thought it was the best first chapter I'd ever read. That chapter establishes character, time period, and tone, and draws the reader into a mystery -- is the baby a changeling or not? But after such promise early on, the book quickly settled into one of those bogs on the moor that McGraw describes -- I felt my mental feet being sucked into goo and had to forcefully pull them out.
I don't want to give the impression that I disliked the book -- I didn't. But I didn't fall in love with it, and that sort of surprises me. It had a very likeable protagonist -- Moql/Saaski, the changeling who doesn't know she is one, only that she is very different from all the other children in the village. Saaski's journey of self-discovery is mildly interesting, as she begins to put together the clues that tell her she is one of the Folk. She has an enchanting friend, Tam, who treats her well when all the other kids are just cruel to her. And the relationship between Saaski and the couple who think they are her parents is touching, especially the relationship with her da'. When Saaski is finally revealed to be Folk, I felt myself nearly tearing up at the loyalty and kindness Yanno shows to her.
Note I said nearly tearing up. Why did this book leave me sort of cold? I'm not really sure. Maybe the premise was a little too thin to be drawn out over so many chapters?? Maybe it had more flowery description than I personally care for?? I just don't know. Maybe the book is like Saaski herself -- able to detect emotion because of her human side, but unable to experience or revel in it because of her Folk side.
I'm not sorry I read it, but I feel a huge sense of relief that I'm finally through!
Why? I was absolutely captured by the first chapter -- thought it was the best first chapter I'd ever read. That chapter establishes character, time period, and tone, and draws the reader into a mystery -- is the baby a changeling or not? But after such promise early on, the book quickly settled into one of those bogs on the moor that McGraw describes -- I felt my mental feet being sucked into goo and had to forcefully pull them out.
I don't want to give the impression that I disliked the book -- I didn't. But I didn't fall in love with it, and that sort of surprises me. It had a very likeable protagonist -- Moql/Saaski, the changeling who doesn't know she is one, only that she is very different from all the other children in the village. Saaski's journey of self-discovery is mildly interesting, as she begins to put together the clues that tell her she is one of the Folk. She has an enchanting friend, Tam, who treats her well when all the other kids are just cruel to her. And the relationship between Saaski and the couple who think they are her parents is touching, especially the relationship with her da'. When Saaski is finally revealed to be Folk, I felt myself nearly tearing up at the loyalty and kindness Yanno shows to her.
Note I said nearly tearing up. Why did this book leave me sort of cold? I'm not really sure. Maybe the premise was a little too thin to be drawn out over so many chapters?? Maybe it had more flowery description than I personally care for?? I just don't know. Maybe the book is like Saaski herself -- able to detect emotion because of her human side, but unable to experience or revel in it because of her Folk side.
I'm not sorry I read it, but I feel a huge sense of relief that I'm finally through!
Entry for August 20, 2007 - I Don't Think I'll Ever Look at Books Quite the Same Way Again ...
(This has spoilers -- not "action" spoilers, but "idea" spoilers -- don't read this if you want to have the thrill of discovery for yourself.)
The premise of The Great Good Thing by Roderick Townley is a little hard to describe. It's a story about the characters in a book. The characters live inside the book, lounging around somewhere in the description or an illustration until the book is opened, at which time they rush to their places and begin to tell/act out the story for the Reader. That concept in itself is enough to endear this book to me; I can just imagine all the beloved characters I've encountered in my reading life waiting around for someone to crack the book open so they can spring into action.
But Townley is a poet, so this book isn't just a little fantasy about the hidden lives of book characters. It ends up becoming an exploration of dreams and thought and memory, of change and death, all viewed from the perspective of an unchanging storybook princess. This particular princess has an adventurous streak, so she crosses the margin of the book into the dreams of the little girl who is the latest Reader. It's fortunate that she does, because the Reader's pyromaniac of a brother ruins the book, and the only way the characters survive is by crossing into the Reader's mind.
That's when things get a little weird. At first, the characters are called "on stage" to perform in the little girl's dreams, which is difficult for some of them since they have to improvise. But as the Reader grows up, the characters are called to the stage less and less often, and finally, they set off to live in the mountains of her memory. But Readers, unlike book characters, have a limited lifespan, and once again, the princess has to take a risk to keep her friends and family from dying along with the Reader.
This book made me ponder the way memory functions -- in the book, once a person had encountered someone or something, whether in real life or through a book, an imprint (or something like that -- I'm not even sure what the right word would be) of that someone or something exists in the person's mind until he/she dies. Some never come to the person's conscious mind again, and they eventually rust away -- it was sort of ambiguous to me whether the memory/imprint disappears when they get too much rust on them. Other memories/imprints are pulled back out of the mountains in the back of our brains when something triggers the person to recall that memory. Sort of complicated -- yeah, this is a kid's book!
It's fun, though, to think of all the people and places and things that occupy my mind after 40-something years of experiences. Reading this book and thinking about its ideas got me to blow the rust off a few of those memory/imprints -- some, like my sixth-grade teacher, that I'm glad to think of again, and some, like that feckless guy I had a crush on my freshmen year of college, that I wouldn't mind to leave back in the dark recesses! (oh, the embarrassment, even now, ha ha!) And I'm aware of how many new people I've added to my brain this year through this reading resolution -- serious, dark-haired Will and simple, strong Suzanna; Beetle/Alyce, finding her own place in the world; Cassie Taylor and TJ Avery, dealing with terrible racism; heck, even Alex Rider, suave teenage spy. I like the idea of them all milling together in my brain like people at some really strange but interesting party (in a rosy pink dorm room like the one I had the first summer I went to the University of Kansas!). I like it a lot. I'm going to keep cramming more people into that party until it has to move somewhere with more room, like that quiet cove in the Smoky Mountains with the orange and purple sunset.
My sister, who is a very perceptive person, sent me a news article after I'd told her about this book. It said 25% of the population in the U.S. didn't read a single book last year. Just think of all the characters lounging against adjectives, waiting for Readers who never come.
The premise of The Great Good Thing by Roderick Townley is a little hard to describe. It's a story about the characters in a book. The characters live inside the book, lounging around somewhere in the description or an illustration until the book is opened, at which time they rush to their places and begin to tell/act out the story for the Reader. That concept in itself is enough to endear this book to me; I can just imagine all the beloved characters I've encountered in my reading life waiting around for someone to crack the book open so they can spring into action.
But Townley is a poet, so this book isn't just a little fantasy about the hidden lives of book characters. It ends up becoming an exploration of dreams and thought and memory, of change and death, all viewed from the perspective of an unchanging storybook princess. This particular princess has an adventurous streak, so she crosses the margin of the book into the dreams of the little girl who is the latest Reader. It's fortunate that she does, because the Reader's pyromaniac of a brother ruins the book, and the only way the characters survive is by crossing into the Reader's mind.
That's when things get a little weird. At first, the characters are called "on stage" to perform in the little girl's dreams, which is difficult for some of them since they have to improvise. But as the Reader grows up, the characters are called to the stage less and less often, and finally, they set off to live in the mountains of her memory. But Readers, unlike book characters, have a limited lifespan, and once again, the princess has to take a risk to keep her friends and family from dying along with the Reader.
This book made me ponder the way memory functions -- in the book, once a person had encountered someone or something, whether in real life or through a book, an imprint (or something like that -- I'm not even sure what the right word would be) of that someone or something exists in the person's mind until he/she dies. Some never come to the person's conscious mind again, and they eventually rust away -- it was sort of ambiguous to me whether the memory/imprint disappears when they get too much rust on them. Other memories/imprints are pulled back out of the mountains in the back of our brains when something triggers the person to recall that memory. Sort of complicated -- yeah, this is a kid's book!
It's fun, though, to think of all the people and places and things that occupy my mind after 40-something years of experiences. Reading this book and thinking about its ideas got me to blow the rust off a few of those memory/imprints -- some, like my sixth-grade teacher, that I'm glad to think of again, and some, like that feckless guy I had a crush on my freshmen year of college, that I wouldn't mind to leave back in the dark recesses! (oh, the embarrassment, even now, ha ha!) And I'm aware of how many new people I've added to my brain this year through this reading resolution -- serious, dark-haired Will and simple, strong Suzanna; Beetle/Alyce, finding her own place in the world; Cassie Taylor and TJ Avery, dealing with terrible racism; heck, even Alex Rider, suave teenage spy. I like the idea of them all milling together in my brain like people at some really strange but interesting party (in a rosy pink dorm room like the one I had the first summer I went to the University of Kansas!). I like it a lot. I'm going to keep cramming more people into that party until it has to move somewhere with more room, like that quiet cove in the Smoky Mountains with the orange and purple sunset.
My sister, who is a very perceptive person, sent me a news article after I'd told her about this book. It said 25% of the population in the U.S. didn't read a single book last year. Just think of all the characters lounging against adjectives, waiting for Readers who never come.
Entry for August 17, 2007 - Rubber-necking at a Car Wreck
Pam Conrad's story of Nebraska pioneers, Prairie Songs, has a title that alludes (to me) to images of meadowlarks and wind in the grass, a peaceful scene. I think the title is misleading in that way -- though don't get me wrong -- I wouldn't change the title. After some thinking, the title seems right -- but only after some thinking.
The story starts with the arrival of a young doctor and his pregnant wife from New York City (I think -- the book doesn't give some details. It's like the narrator assumes we know them or that they don't matter.) to pioneer on the plains of Nebraska. The narrator of the story is a young girl whose family lives three miles away from the new arrivals, apparently their closest neighbors. The doctor, though citified with his waxed mustache, seems to adjust pretty well. His wife, Emmaline, is the problem. She is a beautiful and refined lady who makes the young narrator see her mother as a plain, brown walnut. Emmaline wears violet dresses with hoopskirts and perfume. She has trunk after trunk of books she has brought from the East. She abhors the fact she will be living in a sod house and burning cow chips, but she accepts it at first, not cheerfully, I suppose, but with a sort of resigned grace. It doesn't take too long, though, for the reader to know she's not going to make it. And from that point on, I read the book with the sort of grostesque fascination that people driving by a car wreck feel -- you don't really want to see the horrible details, yet you can't keep from looking.
I won't give away what happens to her in the end, but I will say I was surprised by the "weapon" that brought her final destruction. It's very appropriate, though.
The story really isn't about what happens to Emmaline, though. It's about what happens to Louisa (the girl who narrates the story). At first, Louisa is sort of ashamed of her mother in comparison to the beautiful Emmaline, but at the end, she "realized she didn't look at all like a walnut . . . . My momma was truly a beautiful lady . . . . Not beautiful, maybe, like Mrs. Berryman had been, but beautiful in a way that made me feel good inside."
That started me thinking about what it would take to be a woman on the frontier, and about why some women were able to survive or even thrive, and why some women collapsed under the strain. Didn't the doctor realize when he was planning to come to the West that Emmaline was unsuited for pioneer life? I suppose we all fool ourselves that people will "get used to the situation." One of the things that I sort of wish had been developed a little more in the book was the backstory for Louisa's Momma. There are hints that she may have had a hard adjustment to make when they first came to Nebraska, but just what kind of struggles she may have had or how she overcame them is never part of the story. I think that might have strengthened the theme (what I thought was the theme, anyway).
I guess it comes down to something the guy on that Discovery Channel show Man vs. Wild said about surviving in one episode (can't quote it directly) -- it's all in a person's outlook. If you have a positive outlook and believe you are going to make it, that you have to make it, the odds are much better that you will make it. Emmaline never believed it, not for a minute, and that's the tragedy of her story.
The story starts with the arrival of a young doctor and his pregnant wife from New York City (I think -- the book doesn't give some details. It's like the narrator assumes we know them or that they don't matter.) to pioneer on the plains of Nebraska. The narrator of the story is a young girl whose family lives three miles away from the new arrivals, apparently their closest neighbors. The doctor, though citified with his waxed mustache, seems to adjust pretty well. His wife, Emmaline, is the problem. She is a beautiful and refined lady who makes the young narrator see her mother as a plain, brown walnut. Emmaline wears violet dresses with hoopskirts and perfume. She has trunk after trunk of books she has brought from the East. She abhors the fact she will be living in a sod house and burning cow chips, but she accepts it at first, not cheerfully, I suppose, but with a sort of resigned grace. It doesn't take too long, though, for the reader to know she's not going to make it. And from that point on, I read the book with the sort of grostesque fascination that people driving by a car wreck feel -- you don't really want to see the horrible details, yet you can't keep from looking.
I won't give away what happens to her in the end, but I will say I was surprised by the "weapon" that brought her final destruction. It's very appropriate, though.
The story really isn't about what happens to Emmaline, though. It's about what happens to Louisa (the girl who narrates the story). At first, Louisa is sort of ashamed of her mother in comparison to the beautiful Emmaline, but at the end, she "realized she didn't look at all like a walnut . . . . My momma was truly a beautiful lady . . . . Not beautiful, maybe, like Mrs. Berryman had been, but beautiful in a way that made me feel good inside."
That started me thinking about what it would take to be a woman on the frontier, and about why some women were able to survive or even thrive, and why some women collapsed under the strain. Didn't the doctor realize when he was planning to come to the West that Emmaline was unsuited for pioneer life? I suppose we all fool ourselves that people will "get used to the situation." One of the things that I sort of wish had been developed a little more in the book was the backstory for Louisa's Momma. There are hints that she may have had a hard adjustment to make when they first came to Nebraska, but just what kind of struggles she may have had or how she overcame them is never part of the story. I think that might have strengthened the theme (what I thought was the theme, anyway).
I guess it comes down to something the guy on that Discovery Channel show Man vs. Wild said about surviving in one episode (can't quote it directly) -- it's all in a person's outlook. If you have a positive outlook and believe you are going to make it, that you have to make it, the odds are much better that you will make it. Emmaline never believed it, not for a minute, and that's the tragedy of her story.
Entry for August 4, 2007 - I've Met My Nemesis...
. . . . and it is a Christian romance novel called Celebrating the American Woman: Theodosia by Meredith Bean McMath. I can't read this book. I've gotten through the first two chapters, and maybe I'm a snob, but I just don't want to read any more of it. I bought it at a used book store for $1 on a rainy afternoon while waiting to go pick up my kids from some activity. It caught my eye because it's historical fiction (and we know how much I love that!) about a period of time I am quite interested in (the nineteenth century before the American Civil War). I'm not a romance novel reader (I've actually only made it through one in my entire life, probably for the same reasons I can't make it through this one!), but I'm not averse to a romantic story. But it takes more than the romance to satisfy the reader in me.
This story seems to have promise -- a young American woman is spending the summer with her aunt in England to learn social graces and be introduced to the "people who matter" (my phrase, not one in the book). The book opens when she is at tea with the most influential people in town, finds the father's will by accident in the library, and mistakes their youngest son for a servant. The book cover promises that she "stumbles upon a dark family secret" -- normally, my naturally abundant curiosity would kick in, but I skimmed around enough in the last chapter this morning after I decided to quit reading the book to guess the "dark secret" is not really that interesting. The two main characters seem likeable enough. So why don't I like this book?
It's not written very well!!! (Sorry, Meredith McMath, if you're reading this!) (as if, ha ha) The thing that finally turned me off this morning happened while the young hero had stolen to Theodosia's window to apologize for allowing her to go on thinking he was a servant, which led to her humiliation in front of his parents. A nice enough scene to build character. But then OUT OF NOWHERE, the author inserted a lengthy section on Theodosia's relationship with her father and how he never seemed quite pleased with her and how that hurt her. HUH???? I'm no published author, but it seems to me that when you have your heroine and hero together, you squeeze every bit of possibility out of that moment and keep your readers focused on that relationship and wondering how it will turn out. I think it's incredibly disorienting to have the reader's "eyes" focused on one scene and then without warning and without reason to suddenly throw another, totally unrelated scene in front of him/her.
Another thing that bothers me is that there is a bit of a "mostly tell, a little show" style to the storytelling. I like to think I'm an intelligent person. You don't have to tell me Theodosia is insecure in this strange setting and explain in detail why that is so. Show her doing something, and I bet I'm smart enough to pick up by what she does and what she says that she's insecure. I can't take credit for that particular line of thinking -- I've seen that advice in different "how to write" manuals, and as I pay attention to the way something is written, it seems to be good advice. Speaking from my own experience of writing, it takes a lot of discipline from the writer and a certain amount of giving some control to your reader. You have to share the characters and let the readers experience the events of the story rather than keeping all the control for yourself. It's not easy to share, especially when those characters mean so much to you and you want to be sure people understand and love them just as you do. But if you don't let go a little, the readers will never get close enough to the characters to care -- and they'll quit reading.
I feel a bit arrogant to be passing judgment on Mrs. McMath's writing -- after all, she is, according to the back cover, "a gifted novelist" with more than this book published. And who am I? Just another wishful writer, nursing along my own first little historical novel whenever I get the time, insecure that anyone would even want to read it in an environment saturated by "chick lit" and fantasy stories, not even sure I actually WANT to show it to someone else and have to give away my beloved characters. I hope I don't have a beam in my own eye when I'm picking at the speck in hers.
But I'm still not going to read that book.
This story seems to have promise -- a young American woman is spending the summer with her aunt in England to learn social graces and be introduced to the "people who matter" (my phrase, not one in the book). The book opens when she is at tea with the most influential people in town, finds the father's will by accident in the library, and mistakes their youngest son for a servant. The book cover promises that she "stumbles upon a dark family secret" -- normally, my naturally abundant curiosity would kick in, but I skimmed around enough in the last chapter this morning after I decided to quit reading the book to guess the "dark secret" is not really that interesting. The two main characters seem likeable enough. So why don't I like this book?
It's not written very well!!! (Sorry, Meredith McMath, if you're reading this!) (as if, ha ha) The thing that finally turned me off this morning happened while the young hero had stolen to Theodosia's window to apologize for allowing her to go on thinking he was a servant, which led to her humiliation in front of his parents. A nice enough scene to build character. But then OUT OF NOWHERE, the author inserted a lengthy section on Theodosia's relationship with her father and how he never seemed quite pleased with her and how that hurt her. HUH???? I'm no published author, but it seems to me that when you have your heroine and hero together, you squeeze every bit of possibility out of that moment and keep your readers focused on that relationship and wondering how it will turn out. I think it's incredibly disorienting to have the reader's "eyes" focused on one scene and then without warning and without reason to suddenly throw another, totally unrelated scene in front of him/her.
Another thing that bothers me is that there is a bit of a "mostly tell, a little show" style to the storytelling. I like to think I'm an intelligent person. You don't have to tell me Theodosia is insecure in this strange setting and explain in detail why that is so. Show her doing something, and I bet I'm smart enough to pick up by what she does and what she says that she's insecure. I can't take credit for that particular line of thinking -- I've seen that advice in different "how to write" manuals, and as I pay attention to the way something is written, it seems to be good advice. Speaking from my own experience of writing, it takes a lot of discipline from the writer and a certain amount of giving some control to your reader. You have to share the characters and let the readers experience the events of the story rather than keeping all the control for yourself. It's not easy to share, especially when those characters mean so much to you and you want to be sure people understand and love them just as you do. But if you don't let go a little, the readers will never get close enough to the characters to care -- and they'll quit reading.
I feel a bit arrogant to be passing judgment on Mrs. McMath's writing -- after all, she is, according to the back cover, "a gifted novelist" with more than this book published. And who am I? Just another wishful writer, nursing along my own first little historical novel whenever I get the time, insecure that anyone would even want to read it in an environment saturated by "chick lit" and fantasy stories, not even sure I actually WANT to show it to someone else and have to give away my beloved characters. I hope I don't have a beam in my own eye when I'm picking at the speck in hers.
But I'm still not going to read that book.
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