Girl Detective

I wrote yesterday about my trouble coming up with book ideas for my friend who wants to find longer books that aren’t violent, scary, or disturbing to read to her son.

One suggestion I had was to read longer picture books than the ones usually recommended for three year olds. I found this article from Child magazine helpful, and Drake has enjoyed many of the books they recommend.

Easy reader chapter books are also a good bet. I forgot to mention the Frog and Toad books by Arnold Lobel, which have been favorites of Drake’s. Also, there are some classics that may not have troublesome passages. Mr. Popper’s Penguins, The Cricket in Times Square, and Caddie Woodlawn are all good possibilities.

A friend wrote to suggest the Beatrix Potter and Roald Dahl books. The Potter books have some of the same issues as the Milne books, though they do portray a wonderful tenderness to animals. And the Dahl books are also problematic. They’re funny and dark, and they empower the child characters, but they can be scary. Also, I found James and the Giant Peach positively creepy in its fear of female physicality.

But the one thing I’d recommend above all is to make friends with the children’s librarian at your local library. S/he is likely to be the best and most constant resource for book ideas.

A friend stumped me recently. She said her 3yo was able and interested to listen to longer books and ones without pictures. She didn’t care for the Pooh books because she felt they were too violent, but they had read and enjoyed Because of Winn Dixie by Kate DiCamillo. Since she knows I’m a bibliophile, she asked my advice for other chapter books that would be good for a 3yo, yet not violent.

First, I had to get my head around her complaint that the Milne books were violent. I consider myself a pretty aware reader, yet that adjective had not occurred to me during any of the many readings we’ve done of that book in our house. Yet my friend isn’t wrong. Christopher Robin has a toy gun with which he (accidentally) shoots Pooh, the animals kidnap (joeynap?) Roo when he and Kanga move to the forest, and Tigger bounces Eeyore into the river. These are just the examples I can think of off the top of my head. I’m not going to stop reading Pooh, because I cherish the humor and sweetness of the stories, as well as the childish roughness, though my friend terms it violence, inherent in play.

Still, though, it took me some time to come up with even a few suggestions, and neither were without pictures. I recommended DiCamillo’s Mercy Watson chapter books, which are fun and silly, as well as longer picture books like Jon J. Muth’s Zen Shorts.

Other books that occurred to me later were the Laura Ingalls Wilder books and The Facts and Fictions of Minna Pratt by Patricia MacLachlan, and The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. These are ones that I’ve read that I’ve enjoyed. I worked for a year in the children’s section of a large used bookstore, and I became familiar with some of the other popular titles and series, though I haven’t (yet) read them myself that might be good candidates: Stuart Little by E.B. White, The Magic Tree House series, and the Junie B. Jones series.

But what was most interesting to me was the number of books I thought of that had immediate difficulties. The Narnia, George MacDonald, and Tolkien books are violent, as are DiCamillo’s more recent novels. Charlotte’s Web has an ending that must be discussed, which would be tough with someone only three. After further thought, I still think picture books are the best fit. Just because a child CAN sit through a book without pictures doesn’t mean picture books should be left behind. They’re one of the best things about childhood, in my opinion, and their experience should be drawn out and savored.

#62 in my book challenge for the year was Morality for Beautiful Girls, the third book in Smith’s African detective series. I enjoyed this book far more than I did #2, Tears of the Giraffe. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni finally became less than perfect, the apprentices became less worthless, and Mma Makutski very quietly became more complex. There were three mysteries: a boy found in the desert, a possible poisoning, and an investigation of the integrity of beauty pageant candidates. All three were used as backstory to the much more interesting development of the series’ characters. One mystery was left purposely unresolved, another was resolved unexpectedly, and the third was predictable, but so charming in its execution and resolution that I can’t complain. This book was a more worthy follow up to the first book. While it still had some of the sexism and romanticisation of the simplistic that I disliked in the second book, it was a more balanced and thus enjoyable story.

#61 in my book challenge for the year was Alexander McCall Smith’s Tears of the Giraffe, the sequel to his wildly successful novel, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. A kind friend gave it to me ages ago, and it languished on the shelf because I bought new books, or something came in at the library. But after re-reading In Cold Blood, I felt the need for a sustaining book, and thought this might suit my mood.

Alas, I found the book uneven. The main characters from the earlier book were back, and I found them aggravatingly unnuanced. Precious Ramotswe was so insightful she barely had to do any detective work. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was kind. Mma Makutsi was clever. In fact, there were no complex characters. Each person had one defining characteristic, and that’s all there was to them, and it identified them as either bad (e.g., the wife-beating ex-husband Note Mokoti) or good (e.g., Precious’s late father Obed).

The main mystery, the fate of an American boy who disappeared ten years before, seemed to turn on a mistake. When Mma Ramotswe investigates, she finds “a newspaper photograph–a picture of a man standing in front of a building. There had been a printed caption, but the paper had rotted and was illegible.” (p. 93) She puts the fragile paper in her pocket.

Yet twenty pages later, the photograph includes multiple people, and has names on it. Mma Ramotswe determines that one man in the photo is evil, and traces him easily by the name on the paper. While the mysteries aren’t critical to one’s enjoyment of the books, this inconsistency was surprising and sloppy.

One of the strengths of the book is the small details of daily life in another culture. Sometimes these are incisive, as when the characters muse on the futility of revenge, the connectedness of people, and the meaning of family and place. At other times the author seemed to be making clowns of his characters, as when they wondered at Freud (since all men should love their mothers) or Madame Bovary (who should have been content married to a boring man, who would provide for her.) Many of the comments were sexist, e.g., that men are disorganized and women are hard working. There was also a great deal of nostalgia for a past that supposedly had better manners and values, yet no insight into why things changed, or ironic awareness that some of what was good about the past might have been a result of otherwise unlamented colonialism.

This book gave me some things to think about, but at the end, its flaws outweighed its merits. It provoked my critical consciousness repeatedly. While I understand it was trying to champion simplicity of life and values, I think instead it was too simplistic in character and narrative, and this undermined for me its message of culture difference and appreciation.

#60 in my book challenge for the year was a re-read of In Cold Blood by Truman Capote. I read it six months ago after I saw the film Capote, and read it again for a book group. It’s a compelling and frightening read, even the second time. What impressed me again was the glimpse into a writing past. True crime and creative non-fiction did not exist as genres until Capote wrote this book. This time, I was strongly reminded of Joyce Carol Oates’s We Were the Mulvaneys, which also centered around a tight-knit, small-town family undone by an act of violence.

Book Moot, which I found via Mental Multivitamin, and MotherReader, which I found on Pages Turned, are two of many kid lit sites with great recommendations for children’s books to read aloud.

Because of Book Moot we’ve read Hi Fly Guy, Farmer Duck, and Snip Snap! What’s That?. At Mother Reader I found out about Happy Bees and Duck and Goose. My 3yo son Drake loved all of these, and demanded numerous re-readings. They were so well written and illustrated, and so humorous, that they were a pleasure for me as well, even multiple times.

I meant to include a link to Lynne Jonell’s Mommy, Go Away with my recent post on empathy for 3yo Drake’s struggles. Mommy Go Away is the story of Christopher at bathtime. His mom wants him to take a bath, but he doesn’t agree, so he makes her small. She’s forced to experience some of the same difficulties that children go through all the time (”Be good! Mind your manners! No hitting the other mommies!”) and ends by agreeing that it’s hard to be small. This and other Jonell books, like When Mommy Was Mad and Mom Pie, have a sweet sense of humor, and are good stories as well as gentle lessons for both parents and children.

#59 in my book challenge for the year was Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose. A brief reminder that these mini-reviews are part of my annual book and movie challenges, which I initiated to remind myself of their importance in my life, and to let others know parenthood doesn’t preclude books and movies.

I enjoyed Prose’s novel A Changed Man last year, and was surprised to find her non-fiction book was also a compelling page turner. I had trouble stopping at the end of chapters. Prose harks back to a time when learning literature was done with close readings that largely eschewed the biographical details of the authors. Her approach embraces the study of literature before postmodernism, which came along and shook everything up with its inclusion of Foucoult, Lacan, and the insistence that we look at everything through different “lenses”. Her approach also harks back to a time and an approach that were more about loving literature than taking it apart and tearing it down, as discussed in this article by a professor of English.

Each chapter focuses on an aspect of fiction, such as character, sentences, paragraphs, and more. For each topic, Prose offers many excerpts and analyses of famous works. The book finishes with a list of “Books to be Read Immediately”, though I did miss an index that would have tied each work on that list to where she cited it as an example in the book. I found her writing and the book both accessible and challenging. In the wake of it, I feel both discouraged (how am I ever going to write as well as the writers she named?) and encouraged (nothing for it but to practice).

Interestingly, Prose even took a book I’d recently not enjoyed, Sense and Sensibility, and pointed out a skillfully done aspect of it that made me better appreciate that book. While Prose’s book is directed to writers, it will also be appreciated by those who love literature.

#58 in my book challenge for the year was The Last of Her Kind by Sigrid Nunez. It is the carefully crafted tale of Ann Drayton, an heiress with a conscience, who gets in trouble during the 1970s. Told by Ann’s college roommate, Georgette, the narrative takes several interesting and unexpected diversions, which all contribute to a satisfying whole. I re-read many passages as I went, because they offered up more with each new encounter.

I have been blamed by others for my timidity; I have heard my passionate love of reading denounced as an addiction, a vice, a cowardly avoidance of the challenges, dangers, excitements, and even duties of real life.

A few things troubled me about the book. Part Five makes a daring switch from first person to third, and nearly pulls it off, except that there are too many things that the author couldn’t have known. Otherwise, I thought the varied points of view in the novel were extemely impressive. A segment near the end written by a prison inmate was too long, and varied too much in voice. Finally, the last two paragraphs are a quote from The Great Gatsby, and a comment on it that didn’t flow well for me from what went before, which was an interesting critique of that great book.

These things are small, though, especially compared to the richness of the story and the characters. The voices are strong, and their lives are compelling. It was a fascinating history lesson as well.

or, Why I Didn’t Blog on Tuesday

Not yet up an hour
Caught in a gale of screaming
Both boys mad at once

This does not bode well
Can hold just one at a time
Peace does not come soon

Sometimes, a haiku is a good way to distill a hard morning. I got the idea from the book Haiku Mama, that rarest of things, a non-cheesy gift book. The author, Kari Anne Roy, has a blog, too.

Hard on the heels of my post about not buying books before I am able to read them, or even before I’ve read them, I bought a book last night that I haven’t read, and don’t intend to read soon. Jodi at I Will Dare wrote that Mary Gaitskill was doing a reading last night, so I grabbed her books that I own (Two Girls, Fat and Thin; Bad Behavior; Because They Wanted To) and the issue of Harper’s that had her essay on rape, which blew my mind when I read it, and tried but failed to lay my hands on my copy of her essay from Vogue on Little Women.

I had been so virtuous for so long, not buying or even putting Gaitskill’s new novel Veronica in my library queue, because I had not yet read her last story collection, Because They Wanted To. But sometime within the past year, I read an article that said she was one of a handful of talented writers who can barely make a living, and since I agree with the talented part, I thought I should put my money where my ethics were, and buy Veronica. So I did, directly contradicting nearly everything I wrote earlier this week, except for how good I am at rationalizing.

Gaitskill was a good reader, and seemed a little shy in front of the audience. Her writing was mesmerizing, and she had interesting things to say about how she wrote Veronica years ago when she had an emotional idea about the book, but wasn’t able to finish it till she had a more intellectual handle on it and could tackle the manuscript holistically. She has arresting white-blonde hair, and wore a pin-striped brown suit over boots that looked both fashionable, and sharp enough to poke a good-sized hole in someone’s shin. And her outfit was a good reflection of how she seemed: smart, talented, with an edge.

Related to yesterday’s post about book stockpiling is the thorny issue of book weeding. I am a fierce de-crapifier. We live in a small house, and clutter makes me anxious. My husband G. Grod, however, is a pack rat. He never wants to throw or give anything away. Recently he had an “I told you so” moment when I was making an 80s mix CD, and no longer owned several CDs of songs I wanted to include. I’d sold them off years ago to make room for new ones, and because I was certain I’d never want to listen to them again. Similarly, I recently bought a copy of Kate Atkinson’s Behind the Scenes at the Museum. I read it years ago for my dear former book group, and didn’t love it, and could not imagine reading it again. But when I read and loved Case Histories last year, I thought I’d like to read BtSatM again.

Getting rid of books/comics/music/movies is a tough call. Yes, it’s nice to clear out room, and not have it taking up space in the house or in my attention. And over the years, I’ve gotten rid of loads of things that I haven’t missed one jot. Yet there are those few instances, like with the 80s CDs, that were so annoying that I must admit my husband has a point. A book in hand can be a wonderful thing when the urge to re-read, or even just to flip through, strikes.

SFP at Pages Turned is auditioning a remedy for book stockpiling:

I can buy any book I want, but the catch is, I can’t buy it until I’m prepared to read it. No more stockpiling, no more bumping library books to the front of the queue since an owned book means a book I can ignore until I run out of material with due dates. No, if I buy a book now I should intend to read it immediately.

Like other readers, I’ve tried the “I can only buy what I’ll read right away” method; it didn’t work. There are too many exceptions, and I’m too good at rationalizing. I’ll find something rare at a used bookstore, or be seduced by some sort of incentive, like a coupon, percent off, or BOGO (buy one, get one). I worked in marketing; incentives aren’t fabulous deals. They’re lures to get me in the store (be it real or virtual) so I spend money I otherwise might not.

The only cure for stockpiling I’ve found is to avoid shopping. If I don’t shop, I don’t buy. Lest this sound like I’ve got my act together, even this doesn’t work. I’ve cut back (not out) book purchases, and I’m better about reading purchases right away. But I’m still reading more new purchases than old purchases. And I’ve read about the same number of old purchases as library books, even though I planned otherwise. This summer I took all books off my library queue and was able to complete my summer reading challenge. Once I did that, though, I put several requests in at the library, so I’m right back to bad habits.

My current plan for the library is not to add any book requests until I’ve read more of the older books on my shelf. When I read about a book that sounds good, I send myself an email, then store it in a folder of recommendations for some potential mythical lull in my reading future. The good thing about electronic lists is that they don’t accumulate in drifts around the house and in my purse, wallet, or diaper bag.

My current plan to avoid stockpiling is to buy a book only after I’ve read it, loved it, and am about to read it again, or urge it on my husband. This has resulted in a few purchases this year already (King Dork and Black Swan Green), but overall, I’m buying far fewer books than previously.

I think book stockpiling is like any other bad habit. Different things work for different people, or even at different times for the same person. Like any bad habit, it’s not able to be undone in a day. Recovery is a process, not an event, and is measured by progress, not perfection. While there are many worse habits out there, book stockpiling isn’t harmless. I learned a few things with my summer reading list. I could manage without books on reserve at the library. I could stick to a book plan if I put my mind to it. But a book plan, as opposed to a loose and changeable list, made reading less enjoyable. Once I acquired a book, by stockpiling or borrowing, it became an obligation, rather than something I wanted to read. For me, stockpiling books not only takes up space and is fiscally irresponsible, but it also takes some of the fun out of reading.

Every so often a meme goes around the blogosphere that asks about favorite books. Not only does this often yield non-illuminating answers (people who name only classics, or don’t say why they chose a title), but the lengthy entries are a reminder that the word meme is made up of me and me. While they can be fun to write, they are usually less fun to read.

Some recent disappointing books have gotten me thinking about books I haven’t loved, and perhaps have even hated. And hated books, I thought, are possibly more interesting than favorite ones.

This is not a meme, but a question: what is one book you hated, and why?

I hated Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld. I disliked the main character, who did not grow or develop over the course of the narrative. I disliked how long it was, and how much time I felt I’d wasted by the time it was over. I disliked it even more when I found it had gotten numerous positive reviews, and was selected by the New York Times as a best book of 2005.

#57 in my book challenge for the year was Bangkok Tattoo, the sequel to Bangkok 8, by John Burdett. While I loved B8 both times I read it, I found Tattoo less deft and engaging. I still whipped through it and could hardly wait to get to the end. But there were myriad bumps along the way: infelicitous sentences, mixed-up characterizations, too much going on, and a narrator who was somehow less present and engaging than he was in the first book. Worst of all, the story centers around that most wretched of cliches, the hooker with the heart of gold. As with B8, the sense of place is wonderful, the cultural divide is lovingly detailed, and Sonchai’s past-life and Buddhist insights make for a singular main character. Yet there were too many traffic-jam talk-radio interludes, a dead-end subplot with Sonchai’s new partner, and more information about other characters that Sonchai is privy to than is believeable.

Bangkok Tattoo is the third sloppy sequel I’ve read recently, after Second Helpings by Meghan McCafferty and Magic Lessons by Justine Larbalestier. All three books were less well plotted than their predecessors, and included a distracting and unnecessary number of details. All three would have benefited from more severe editing and at least one more draft. I suspect they were rushed to publication based on the success of the former books. I found all three disappointing in comparison to the first books, on whose merit I bought them. I will not be buying the third installments without having read them from the library first.

#56 in my book challenge for the year was Persuasion by Jane Austen. I’m slowly working my way through the six major novels by Austen. Persuasion is her last, and was published posthumously. Anne Elliott is a typical Austen heroine in that her father is fiscally irresponsible, she has one vain sister and one self-involved sister, and she becomes involved with a man who is not as good as he seems. Her particulars are interesting, though. She regrets that a family friend talked her out of an engagement in her youth, and the novel does a credible job of maintaining doubt as to whether they will get together. Anne is a sympathetic and likeable character, even as she is maddeningly reticent. There are three women in the novel who aren’t entirely good or bad: Mrs. Russell (the widowed family friend), Mrs. Clay (the possibly widowed friend of Anne’s older sister), and Mrs. Smith (an ailing, poor, widowed school chum of Anne’s). There were three other characters who were also widowed: Anne’s father, Captain Benwick, and Anne’s cousin Mr. Elliott. The novel is much darker than the other Austen novels I’ve read, and dwells much on illness and death. It’s filled with regret, and has sharp judgment rather than gentle humor for its minor characters. In constrast with Price and Prejudice and Emma, this is the work of a more mature, less happy writer.

Toys and books go in and out of favor without notice. Its hard to pick what is going to be a good inducement for 3yo Drake to go up for “nap” time, get his diaper changed, put on clothes, leave the house, or any number of other things that seem pretty basic, yet require lengthy negotiations. I was fairly sure that Mercy Watson Fights Crime, the third book in Kate DiCamillo’s easy reader Mercy Watson series, would be a hit. I was right. It is Drake’s new favorite book, supplanting Dooby Dooby Moo.

Mercy is the pet pig of Mr. and Mrs. Watson. She is very fond of toast with a great deal of butter. One night, she hears the sound of the toaster sliding across the counter. She goes into the kitchen to find out who’s making toast, only to discover a burglar. All the characters from the previous books appear. As usual, Mercy is in good favor at the end with everyone but her neighbor Eugenia, and everyone enjoys Mrs. Watson’s toast. Chris Van Dusen’s retro illustrations perfectly capture the simplicity of the stories, and contribute in no small way to how funny they are, and how endearing Mercy is, even though Eugenia is right–nothing with this pig is as it seems. In this series, DiCamillo has set aside her penchant for the sad and difficult. This book, like its predecessors, is a sweet, silly romp that’s fun to read aloud.

Dooby Dooby Moo is the latest entry in the Click Clack Moo books. Spurred by instigator Duck, the animals enter a talent contest at the fair. Farmer Brown knows something is going on, but he doesn’t figure it out until too late. As always, the humor is sweet, there’s good repetition for the read aloud, and Betsy Lewin’s illustrations are charming and funny. My 3yo Drake loves it, especially the singing phrases of the animals, which include Dooby Dooby Moo, and which we’ve heard many times over the monitor as he “reads” to himself in his room. Less successful are the footnotes in small type. They seem meant to be funny, yet I didn’t find them amusing. They only distracted me from the story, which I found rather slight. Dooby Dooby Moo is good, but my favorites remain Click Clack Moo: Cows That Type and Duck for President.

#55 in my book challenge for the year is The Film Snob’s Dictionary by David Kamp and Lawrence Levi. A slim volume packed with definitions of key phrases, films, and people beloved by so-called Film Snobs. The book not-so-gently mocks Film Snobs, and takes pleasure in knocking down some of their sacred cows. It’s a weird conceit, since it’s not a compendium of actual good things, but rather things that some people think are good and that authors sometimes agree with, or sometimes not. For example, there is no Truffaut entry but there is one for Office Space, a film that only snobs “get”. While of dubious utility unless you’re soon to be attending a gathering of Film Snobs, it is clever, entertaining and informative. Its short entries make it an idea bathroom book.

#54 in my book challenge for the year is a re-read of one of my favorites from last year, Bangkok 8, in preparation for the sequel, Bangkok Tattoo. I have the mistaken impression that re-reading will help me slow down and savor books. Knowing the ending helps me recognize all the clues are in place, but I think it also abets me in going through a book faster, since I don’t pause to puzzle things out. It’s a Buddhist noir murder mystery about a Thai policeman out to avenge his partner’s death. The atmosphere and sense of place are stunningly well drawn, while the asides about Buddhist practice and Thai culture are fascinating and mind-opening. I’m sure some could argue convincingly that the author goes light on the sex trade and its implications for women. My guilt over enjoying it in spite of its unPCness may lead me to track down a book on prostitution in Asia, Casting Stones.

The weird thing that bothered me about this book was the page numbers. Not only are they in a barely legible font, they’re at the top only on odd pages that don’t start a chapter. I would much prefer to have legible page numbers in the bottom margin on every page.

Another weird thing is that Drake loves to pull this book off the shelf. I don’t know if it’s the bright pink cover, or the snake, or the big number 8, but he goes after this book all the time.