Book review: Tell the Wolves I'm Home

It took about 100 pages for me to figure out the title for Carol Rifka Brunt’s debut novel, “Tell the Wolves I’m Home.” I’m not sure I am entirely right. Like a good painting, this story of grief has layers.

It is 1987, and 14 year old June Elbus is dealing with the death of her favorite uncle and godfather, the renowned painter Finn Weiss, from complications caused by AIDS. He paints one last painting of June and her older sister Greta that is instrumental in uncovering hidden truths of Finn and the people he left behind. June grapples with feelings of grief, love, stolen moments, and guilt. She learns more about relationships and the space between them.

The book captures the suspicion and fear that was indicative of the times when little was known about AIDS. Anyone who remembers Ryan White will recognize the hysteria. Younger readers will pick up the vibe of the ancient history of the 80s. Young or older, the cadence of the language and the likable character of June carry the reader on a satisfying journey that touches the heart. 

St. Nick's Day

Tonight is the eve before St. Nick’s Day. If you don’t know what that is, you probably aren’t alone. Growing up, it was part of our lives, albeit a confusing part. St. Nick, which is an alias for Santa Claus, comes weeks before Christmas to fill stockings with candy, small toys and other goodies for children to find on the morning of December 6. It wasn’t until I had children and moved away that I realized not every household does this. It also got more confusing as my children grew up, celebrating this oddball holiday tradition in a place where it was not that common. Try explaining why St. Nick gave your kid candy and not his buddy Meghan.

There were some who did celebrate St. Nick’s Day, and the local Catholic church taught it, but it was an alternate version, where children put out their shoes to be filled with candy. Yuck! The St. Nick I know does not want to put food in my children’s stinky shoes. Although upon further research, I learned that putting out shoes has historical significance with this tradition, just not in my tradition.

Like most old tales, there are several versions of the story of St. Nick. It has been retold in that weird claymation action in “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” More recently, it was told by VeggieTales (and pretty well, actually). I prefer the version of the poor man with three daughters who cannot marry because he has no dowry to give prospective husbands. The girls hang their stockings by the fire to dry and wake to find them filled with gold. Notice they were stockings, not shoes.

Last summer, we moved back to our hometown. St. Nick is in full swing here, with advertisements posted on scrolling signs outside local retailers announcing that the jolly old elf comes tonight. My children will not face the confusion of getting some goods while their classmates don’t, and haven’t once asked to set out their shoes. 

A thanks to National Novel Writing Month.

November is National Novel Writing Month. This is the month where writers around the globe attempt to write a novel in 30 days. The goal is to reach 50,000 words in the month of November.

I have not reached that goal, not once, although I tend to observe NaNoWriMo every year in some way. It is when my writer friends go into hiding. It is when I get daily postings to my email that are meant to be inspiring, remnants from the year I actually signed up for the program and miserably failed to meet 50K words in a month. I see writers in forums and on Facebook post their word counts, which make me feel like an unproductive heel.

It also turns out to be one of my more productive months for writing. Must be due to the peer pressure, or the fact that writing is top on the mind for a month, rather than the 7,000 other things associated with the upcoming holidays.

As this month of November comes to a close, I want to congratulate my comrades for completing the challenge, or even attempting the challenge. I dipped into a rewrite project that reached the climax tonight. While I didn’t reach a word count, I did some great work this month. I thank the creators of National Novel Writing Month for bringing this isolated craft workmanship to the fore.

Otis on the Lam

Otis the cat went missing on October 25 and hasn’t been seen since. We miss him so and hope he comes back. He is a VIP (very important pet) in our lives. He isn’t our first cat, or our last, but he is one of the more memorable ones.

We found Otis almost 12 years ago at an adoption fair. While Dean and I argued the merits of two other cats, our son, little two-year-old Carter, was playing with this gray tabby cat through the slats in his cage. We were told Otis was previously adopted with a brother, but they returned Otis. I’m pretty sure they gave us a discounted price and ushered us out the door to be rid of that cat.

Otis was six months old at the time and 14 pounds. He drove us all crazy eating plants, knocking things off tables and trying to drink my water…..for the next 12 years. True to our first impressions, he loved kids. When we hosted play dates, he would run to the door to greet little two year old guests and their little brothers and sisters. Before Otis, I had not seen a cat so drawn to getting his tail pulled and eyes poked. I think he preferred children to adults, unless the adults were coffee drinkers.

Brewing coffee in our house was akin to brewing catnip. Otis would go bananas. His favorite snacks were tuna fish and coffee beans. He once broke into my mom’s suitcase while she was visiting and ate a hole in the bag of her coffee bean stash.

Otis was not to be ignored. He was a big cat who insisted on sitting on guests whether they wanted it or not. He wouldn’t sit in a proper, polite way, but that annoying cat way of walking back and forth while dragging a tail across the chair holder’s face. He would mess up my puzzles and knock everything off my desk while I was trying to work, then everything off my nightstand while I slept. He terrified the vet with an unnaturally vicious reaction to routine checkups, so much so, that I drugged him before getting shots.

It was the only time I heard him hiss. It was all he had the energy to do on the kitty Valium was to produce a long, silent hiss in protest to the manhandling at the vet.

Now Otis is gone. He disappeared from his foster home (my mom’s house) during a big move. The theories of where he went are running rampant, but the truth is that we don’t know where Otis has gone.

We only wish he would come back.

Keeping Your Chin Up When Life Refuses to Cooperate

I usually have a sunny disposition and am able to take the knocks of life gracefully. Lately, life is testing me and I feel cynicism and discontent etching a pattern in my daily life. This year has been tough with job losses, moves, housing troubles and a lost cat who may never return.

In an effort to keep my chin up, I am listing things that make me feel better. 

1)    Focus on other people. If I think about other people’s problems and situations and how I can help them, I don’t think as much about my own. It also builds empathy. We all struggle in life at times, some more than others. None of it is fair.

2)    Get outside, get active. One of the tasks I hate doing turns out to be a positive in my life. I walk or bike with my 1^st grader to school every morning. I don’t want to be up that early in the morning, let alone dressed and walking in the cold. It would be easier to take the car, but I think the exercise is good for his health. Turns out it is good for me, too. That brisk walk/bike ride wakes me up for the day, gets me in touch with the outside world and gears up my body to take on the day. The days I drive him (there are some) turn out to be crabbier days that take me longer to get in a groove.

3)    Engage the senses. We went from living in a 2200 square foot house to an ugly, 700 square foot apartment. Some days I realize I am hungry to look at something beautiful, smell something delicious, bask in a warm glow of something. I have added a few touches to the apartment to help it look a bit nicer. We spend time looking at beautiful things, fall foliage in the woods or a wedding at Downton Abbey. Some days I make soup just for the smell.

4)    Create something. When things are stressful, I think I can’t work on my novel in progress, but that is the perfect time. It is an escape to another world that whisks me away from my troubles. I get the same effect in creating anything, be it a Bitstrips avatar or the ultimate chili.

5)    Exercise. This the last thing I ever want to do, but I work out so much during a good run or ride on the bike. I always feel more accomplished afterwards.

6)    Eat well. The candy only makes me feel good for a minute. Clean eating is a better choice that leaves a lasting feeling of good will.

 If you are struggling with troubles, keep your chin up as best as you can. At times, it seems a little wallowing is ok. If you are a creative person, use the energy in your work to create something tragically beautiful. 

From First to Final Draft

I am currently working on another draft of a novel I already wrote. This is the part of the process I get confused. I am not sure what is considered revision and what is rewriting. I use both terms for doing pretty much the same thing, working the words to make the story better.

This is probably my seventh or eighth draft of this book. I practically have it memorized by now. I think this is part of the process, and getting to know a book intimately. I know every curve and corner to this story, which is mostly why I am rewriting it again. I am close enough to see the flaws.

This is a good rewrite, as I am falling more in love with the story as well as its execution. It sometimes takes me a few drafts for the latter. Like anything, you must practice to make it perfect.

Malcolm Gladwell said it takes 10,000 hours to become an expert. I feel like I spend that on each book, although I know I fall far short of that. I do know it takes more than one draft, or even two or five to get to something that is beautiful. Perhaps this is not true of all writers. Some may have an innate or learned skill that allows them to churn out a great story in one, two or even three drafts. I am not one of those writers, although I wish to become one of those someday.

Although in doing that, I would miss out on the intimate phase, where I have the story memorized. I would miss pushing my characters to their limits, and seeing what they are capable of. I would miss the growth of secondary characters and subplots, which often don’t emerge in first drafts for me.

So, for now, I hurrah the umpteenth draft of this novel, because it is making the story better. It may take me longer to publish. I may never be an author who can churn out a book a year or more, but I will churn out books I love. 

Book Review: Crazy

The very complex and weird world of teenage relationships gets muddled by a presumed case of bipolar disorder.

Connor and Isabel meet at summer camp and keep in touch by email. The story unfolds almost entirely through email correspondence between the two of them, in which they talk about their parents, their relationships, their feelings for each other. Connor is steady in his devotion and remains calm and mature, almost too mature to be believable, but he is the son of a therapist. Isabel displays strong emotions that become increasingly erratic and starts reporting some dangerous and troublesome behavior that leads Connor into action to get help for her.

A tough and sad read at times, Amy Reed tackles the challenging topic of bipolar disorder in a believable manner. Reading this made me interested in what she takes on in her other two books, “Clean” and “Beautiful.”