Past Lives, Reviewed

It’s hard to know quite what to do with a headline like that. I wrote it, and realized it evoked images of Judgment Day, and in my case, the sorts of images that make me jump up and bump the AC setting down by about ten degrees. I thought of changing the title, but really, what else could I call this post? Past Lives, Reviewed is exactly what I’m going to be talking about. Yes, gentle readers, the little collection of short stories that grew out of my foray into past-life regression, the little collection that somehow leapfrogged my more ambitious memoir about being a single mother that has been trapped in the doldrums of Final Revisions for, lo, these many months … where was I?

Oh, yes. Past Lives: A Journey has been on Amazon for a few months now. There’s been absolutely no fanfare. I approved the final proof. It hit Amazon. I’m still waiting for the Kindle edition to get finished. That little book has just been sitting there quietly, waiting for me to get off my sit-upon and actually do some marketing, or at the very least a signing. Imagine my delight to discover that, in spite of my sloth, Past Lives has gotten its first review, and a very nice one it is, by one of my favorite writers, Marian Allen. You can learn more about her here. And you should. Go. But finish reading this first.

I mean, this is a woman who is entitled to an opinion. Here’s what she said:

To be fair, I think I would have given this five stars if the author hadn’t been so honest.

This book is a series of stories written in response to past-life regression exercises. As a matter of full disclosure, I hereby state that, although I bought the book, I did so because I had read a couple of the stories on Bodie’s blog, and knew they were beautiful.

Heartbreaking to joyful, it’s cleansing and healing to follow this writer’s journey through these vicarious (or allegorical?) explorations of experiences of one person’s oppression by another.

The experience and the catharsis are valid for persons of either gender, although the stories of “the woman in the red dress” speak most clearly to female readers.

Highly recommended. Oh–the problem with the honesty? I wanted more stories. I didn’t CARE if this was all there actually were in the set, I wasn’t ready for them to be over! Again: Highly recommended.

Thank you, Marian. Thank you ever so much.

Now, about the “more stories” thing. You’ll be pleased to know, Marian, that Benchmarks: A Single Mother’s Illustrated Journal should have cleared the last of the editing shoals and be ready to set sail by around the end of this week. It should be on Amazon by the end of next week. One of the reasons this book is taking so long is because I’ve made the decision to produce it in several ways in order to appeal to a broader audience. The illustrated version is the Cadillac of the series. It’s 8.5 x 8.5 inches, full color, and it includes numerous paintings done by yours truly. It’s truly lovely, but all that lovely carries with it a price. And in times like these I understand that it’s a price some might find prohibitive. So I’m also producing the book as a small, trade paperback, suitable for tucking into a purse, briefcase, or diaper bag—think of it as the Hyundai version. It doesn’t have all the lovely paintings, the rich color, and the abundant size, but it’s priced within just about anyone’s budget. And, since I’m finding that e-books are playing an increasingly significant role in my sales, I’m also going to be producing Benchmarks on Kindle, as well as in a color, graphic e-book format, if all goes well. These will be the razor skateboards of the group, so to speak.

But that’s not all. I’m also developing a line of related products through CafePress. The idea is to provide a number of sales alternatives designed to appeal to a broad range of readers. I can do this, of course, because I do my own design and because I make use of the online tools available. You should try it; it takes time, but very little money.

And since we’re being honest here, I should probably say that I had tucked a few more stories into Past Lives, but ultimately decided to remove them to preserve the integrity of the collection. Removed they may have been, but those stories have been neither discarded nor forgotten. I’m beginning work on a less exclusive collection of stories even now, one that I think will include “The Girl Who Could Fly,” and “The Fattest Woman in the World,” The story that provided the germ that is even now growing into my first Young Adult novel, The Flying Walinskis. When they’ll see the light of day I couldn’t possibly guess, since one of the things publishing has taught me is that everything takes longer than you expect, but it’ll happen. It’ll happen … it’ll happen … Stay tuned.

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Red Riding Hood: Reviewed

Once upon a time there was a girl. Her grandmother gives her a red cape and a nickname. The rest is fairy tale…and movie…and novel…

The fairy tale has stood the test of time. The movie has been panned. So far as I can see, no one except a few amazon shoppers and me have read the novel (written by Sarah Blakley-Cartwright), and my sense is that, like me, most read it after watching the movie.

Which was, to be honest, appealing in a slide show sort of way. It worked better if I turned my brain off and just looked at the pretty pictures, although I found architecture of the village bizarre and overdone. The artist in me loved the fantasy scenes, where we see Red from overhead, striding through the snow and trailing about fifty feet of swirling, snapping red cloak. The first time I saw this my brain, which was still engaged at that point, said, “Hey, she drags that much fabric through that much snow and wind and she’s going to wind up strangled,” but that was just a fleeting moment.

The movie has its share of anachronisms–the actors accents (although hey, it’s a fantasy; why can’t they make Red Riding Hood talk any way they want?) the bright shining dental work on people we are to believe never heard of toothbrushes, and the fact that these people, who apparently spend all their time in the village, starving, are all constantly engaged in cooking something or other, plump, well-fed, and generously provided with Adult Beverages.

Other reviewers have noted that this is basically the “Twilight” movies, without the vampires and electricity and pickups, and (my own observation) uglier werewolves. What others don’t note is the curious nature of the villagers’ relationship to the werewolf, which has evolved into the thing that most resembles religious practice in the village. We have lip service to The Church, but the priest looks like he subsists on prayer and scraps, while the monthly sacrifice the villagers offer to the wolf is their biggest and best. And until the wolf breaks the covenant between them by killing a girl when he’s already gotten his sacrifice that month, the villagers seem content that it should be so. There was something very Old Testament about the whole arrangement.

All of which makes it difficult to understand the logic of the twist the movie takes, down Burning Times Lane. Valerie (Red Riding Hood) is deemed to be a witch because she can speak to the wolf, and from there on things get very predictable. This is both disappointing and puzzling. We’ve just been set up to see the wolf as some sort of vengeful forest god. The logic of these things would indicate that a girl who could speak to this creature would be handy to have around. She could be the Super Sacrifice, which the wolf seems to want. At the very least, she might be able to talk him into shopping in another village for his monthly groceries. Turning it into an unfunny Black Adder episode is just sad. But as I said, the movie’s better with your brain off. Sink into a light meditative trance and enjoy the pretty pictures.

Which leaves us the question of the book. The foreword indicates that the book should have been very much a creature of the movie. Sarah Blakley-Cartwright spent extended time on set, and was given access to scripts, actors, directors–everything that should have equipped her to write a book that faithfully replicated the movie in theme, tooth, and claw.

It doesn’t.

In the beginning I found myself mentally inserting “movie stuff” into the “book stuff.” This seemed strange, since in the past I have invariably found myself moving the other way–mentally adding book details to flesh out inadequacies in the movie. And in the beginning I found myself troubled by anachronisms–a reference to trees swaying like ship’s masts in a medieval, landlocked mountain village where a ship would never have been seen, for instance.

But as I read I found looking for Blakley-Cartwright’s sly, subversive humor, and the book actually makes more sense than the movie when it comes to explaining why Valerie becomes the target of village animosity. When the wolf hunter/witch finder comes to town (the point at which the movie takes a sharp, inexplicable, and disappointing left turn) Blakley-Cartwright uses the series of “red herrings” that turn the film hunt for the wolf into farce into something much more–an examination of the nature of monsters.

In the end, the movie slaps on a quick, rather cobbled-together conclusion–one that really doesn’t mesh very well with the character ultimately identified as the wolf. Blakley-Cartwright’s ending, on the other hand, doesn’t really seem like a conclusion. It’s not very satisfying from a dramatic point of view–but it absolutely hammers home the theme of her book–that monsters are identified not by species, but by actions. In fact, it rather put me in mind of the ways that George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion and My Fair Lady end. One ending is justified by the narrative; the other doesn’t make a lot of sense, but it’ll please an uncritical audience.

I believe this is Cartwright’s first foray into extended fiction, and on the whole, I believe she’s done fairly well. Certainly she’s taken a pretty mediocre movie and turned it into a book that, though flawed, has lovely moments, and raises questions. Do I recommend it? That’s a tough one. on the whole, I would say not–but I would also say that Sarah Blakley-Cartwright has potential as a writer; I’ll be interested to see what she produces with a little more seasoning and experience.

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My Fantastic Elastic Brain Book

I won a contest. This never happens to me. The last time I won anything was my senior year in college, when I won a scholarship. I was very pleased about that. I am almost as pleased about winning this book.

It’s Your Fantastic Elastic Brain, by JoAnn Deak, Ph.D., illustrated by Sarah Ackerley, and published by Little Pickle Press. I’m delighted because it’s a great book. I’m doubly delighted because I read about the teething troubles Little Pickle Press had in getting this book out of the computer, through the presses and binders, and to the bookstore shelves.

Seems that a good part of the problem resulted from the paper choice. Your Fantastic Elastic Brain is printed on Terraskin, “a combination of large amounts of mineral powder (>75%) with a small quantity (<25%) of non-toxic resin combined to create an environmentally friendly paper,” according to the company’s website.

Writing surfaces have been made of all sorts of things, but the overwhelming favorites for paper production have been cloth and wood in various forms. It’s fair to say that paper-making has been elevated to an art form; go to a press some time and ask to see their paper samples books. In a world dominated by plant-and-fabric-based product, Terraskin is something new–a paper made from minerals and resin–stone.

The up side of Terraskin is that it can be produced without destroying trees. The down side is that creating illustrations that will print on this paper stock is a bit of a gamble, since not a lot has been written about the way this paper seems to take ink, and if Little Pickle Press’ experience is typical, the paper’s unique texture can create challenges in the binding process.

For those considering printing on Terraskin, the closest equivalent in conventional paper stocks that I’m familiar with is Sundance uncoated. The uncoated stock that CreateSpace uses for its book interiors seems to take in in a similar way, resulting in flatter, less saturated images.

The result is a book with a soft, traditional, look. Without seeing the illustrator’s original images it’s hard to know what the original colors looked like, but the overall print quality has many characteristics typical of traditional uncoated stocks–the ink seems to have been absorbed deeply into the paper, leaving a slightly mottled surface texture, and softening, flattening, and de-saturating colors. This sounds like a negative. In my opinion, it’s absolutely not. It results in a book with a rich, elegant, soft, and yet simple look–ideal for supporting the mission of a book like this, which aims to familiarize children with the wonders of their brains.

The feel of Terraskin is wonderful–soft and velvety. It seems to crease comparatively easily, which I could see making the printing and binding process a challenge, and I’m not sure how well it will stand up to the rigors of little hands, but esthetically the feel is very pleasing. I found myself running my hands over the pages, just for the pleasure of the experience.

The result is that Your Fantastic Elastic Brain has the look and feel of a classic children’s book, due, in large part, I believe to the lovely illustrations, and how they interact with the paper on which the book is printed. Now that I’ve had a chance to hold the book in my hands, I am disappointed to learn that Little Pickle Press has no plans to repeat the Terraskin experiment any time soon. Though it seems to be a tricky paper to work with, the end results are worth it, in my opinion.

So for all you designers and paper geeks out there, here’s my take on what this paper does well, what it doesn’t do well, and how it might work better.

1. It produces soft, desaturated images. The website says, “Because the paper is fiberless, it does not absorb ink like regular paper and also uses 20-30% less ink than regular paper. Images stay much crisper and cleaner because the ink doesn’t bleed.” I wouldn’t want to bet the farm on that; the look of the printed book would seem to indicate that if the paper isn’t wicking up the ink, the way it takes the ink creates a result that looks much the same–flattened, desaturated images with the softened, slightly ragged edges typical of soft, uncoated paper stocks. Observation would indicate that it’s not going to be a good choice for projects where a bright, sharp, high-contrast look is desired. Nor would I choose it for a project requiring highly detailed, tiny scale work. There are no photos in this book, so it’s impossible to evaluate how Terraskin handles those; from what I can see, it might not be a happy experience. Running a dry varnish or choosing a coated stock might help in controlling how the ink and paper interact; it would be a good question to ask, at any rate.

2. I’m going to be interested in seeing how the book holds up to handling; my initial reaction is that I’d probably choose something a little less creasable for a kids’ book. On the other hand, the site specs indicate that it’s pretty tear-resistant, and the paper does feel lovely.

3. I’d like to try Terraskin in an annual report for an appropriate client, for an illustrated book for an older audience–the illustrations in “YFEB” certainly came out lovely–or for a book where I wanted a soft, tactile, and traditional look and feel–or for a project that would benefit from vagaries that seem to characterize how this stock interacts with ink.  I’d be very interested in learning how other inks interact with this paper, as well as what other paper weights, stocks, and coating options might be available. A coated version of this paper might be significantly more flexible in terms of applications.

All in all, Terraskin is an ecologically-friendly, tree-free paper with a lovely feel. For the right projects, like this book, it seems to produce beautifully, though I can see where working with it might be challenging in some circumstances. I look forward to seeing how the paper evolves as it begins to be more widely used, and its makers fine-tune their formula.

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Divining Myself

SPOILER ALERT—if you plan on reading The Diviner’s Tale, by Bradford Morrow, and don’t want to know about key plot points, do not read this post.

All righty, then, we’re all here, and all agreed that we’d like to discuss the book in detail, and not worry about things like giving away the plot? Good–here we go.

***

The Diviner’s Tale
Bradford Morrow
ISBN 978-0-547-38263-0
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2010

First, just to get us all up to speed, I just finished reading The Diviner’s Tale, by Bradford Morrow. The Blood-Red Pencil wanted a review focused on a central aspect of the book–its point of view. In this case, the point of view is that of the female protagonist, Cassandra, water diviner and sometimes teacher, single mother, and daughter of a water-divining father and a schoolteacher mother. Cassie is a woman. The author of the book, Bradford Morrow, is a man.

The Blood-Red Pencil was particularly interested in my thoughts on how convincingly Morrow manages to create a female character, given that, as far as we know, he has no firsthand experience in this area. As I pointed out in my review–and if you’re interested in a less personal response to The Diviner’s Tale I’d suggest you pop over to the Blood-Red Pencil and check out my review there–I spent a great deal of the book thinking that he hadn’t managed to pull it off.

The central character and story-teller, Cassie, has little or no physical reality. We get a few clues–she’s thinner than not, and has curly red hair–but I spent most of the book with no sense of her as a physical being. Even worse, there’s a great deal of ambiguity about how far we should trust Cassie’s version of things. She herself wonders about that, and in fact spends a great deal of energy in trying to be “normal” and see and sense only what everyone around her does. Certainly, just about everyone except for her diviner father and her sons seems to believe that she’s crazy.

It was frustrating, and puzzling, because other aspects of the book–the settings, descriptions of divining–were masterfully drawn. It wasn’t until I reached the last quarter of the book, where Cassie relates seeing her idolized older brother involved in a girl’s fatal fall, only to have her father tell her that what she saw wasn’t real, I began to understand. And when she at last acknowledges to herself that one of her brother’s friends raped her immediately following her brother’s death, and then pretended to have rescued her, it all made sense.

In describing the experience, Cassie says, “…whatever had happened had already begun to cloak itself in a mist of unreality.” She doesn’t forget, but she’s a child. She’s been told a certain sequence of events is “real.” When her own sequence doesn’t tally, it “slid[es] into a deviation far out of the stream that was my life.”

A good friend of mine who once observed similar “unreal” events described the process as “misfiling.” The event is not forgotten, but it is “filed” under another name–“things I saw because I was snoopy,” or, as in my own case, “things that happened to me because I had been bad.” As such, the events acquire a freight of shame, unreality, and guilt all out of proportion to the victim’s actions.

Likewise, Cassie’s apparent inability to see and describe herself echoes my own experience–as a child who grew up in a home where molestation was happening, and being concealed under a very different external reality, I, too, found safety in invisibility–to the point where, as Cassie apparently does, I have found it impossible to hold onto a clear image of myself. I look in a mirror, and understand that I am seeing “me,” but describing myself is impossible. Furthermore, I have lived most of my life in the kind of clothes that Cassie prefers–men’s flannel shirts and jeans–something we only discover about her after she has regained her own reality, and found with it her Self as a woman.

The piece that anchors the picture of Cassie as a traumatized child who is never allowed to own the true nature of her pain is a detail that is easy to miss–it’s related in a conversation her sons describe. They tell Cassie that the sons of the man who raped her as a child have quoted their father saying that she is “psycho.”

It sounds like a small thing, and not really to different from what most of the town believes. But when I read that I found myself remembering my father’s response when I asked him questions about my own childhood memories. “You’ve always had a weak grip on reality,” he told me, smiling. And then he went to his Bible study group and told them that “the girls are mad and saying awful things because they think we made them work too hard.”

My father and  Roy Skolar, the child rapist in the story, operate out of the same sense of self preservation, launching a pre-emptive strike to discredit their victims, lest their victims ever become their accusers.

Ultimately, Cassie gets validation when a construction crew unearths the bones of Roy Skolar’s other victims. She accepts her own painful past, saves Roy Skolar’s latest victim, accepts her extra-normal abilities, “tells herself,” and even moves on to renew an apparently healthy relationship with a childhood sweetheart. And she lives happily ever after, secure in her own reality, and in her self. In short, she does what she needs to do to make peace with her past, and move into a present and future.

The Diviner’s Tale is about a woman struggling to understand and accept herself, and her remarkable abilities. But even more, it is an answer to all those who consider child abuse something that can be “put behind you,” “forgiven,” “let go,” “in the past,” without ever being acknowledged, and understood in the context of the adult self. Cassie never dons a dress, wears her hair loose, or in any other way celebrates her self as a woman until after she has acknowledged and “told” herself–expressed her own reality and had it acknowledged and its affects understood by those whose opinions matter to her.  Furthermore, her self-knowledge is essential to stopping the dangerous cycle that threatens yet another child, Laura.

In the end, The Diviner’s Tale is less about divining water than it is about divining one’s true self, and having that internal reality validated by those whose opinions matter. Cassie is fortunate. The bulldozers unearth Roy Skolar’s victims in time for her to gain enough credibility to rescue Laura. But what about those of us who are less fortunate, whose families prefer the comfort of denial, who refuse to understand that pain and shame experienced and denied in childhood can wreak havoc on the adult’s sense of self? What about those of us who are advised to “get over it,” without anyone ever being willing to acknowledge what “it” is?

The Diviner’s Tale has left me with the comfort of knowing that I am not alone in my experience–and with validation for my own efforts at “telling myself.” I don’t often see myself more clearly after reading a novel, but this time, I do. So, back to the initial question–does Bradford Morrow succeed in speaking convincingly as a woman? In my opinion, the answer is a resounding “yes.” He not only speaks convincingly in a woman’s voice, but in a particular woman’s voice.  The very ambiguity that haunts much of the book becomes chillingly convincing once we, like Cassie, have ‘divined’ the events which have shaped her. In the end, Cassie is as real as I am–maybe a bit moreso.

The Diviner’s Tale is available at Amazon and at your favorite bookstores. I’d suggest  you pick up a copy, posthaste. In my opinion, the craftsmanship in this book, and the fact that it rewards thought, comparison, and examination moves it out of the realm of popular fiction and into the realm of literature.

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