Poetry Wednesday: Fiction

Fiction

Going south, we watched spring
unroll like a proper novel:
forsythia, dogwood, rose;
bare trees, green lace, full shade.
By the time we arrived in Georgia
the complications were deep.

When we drove back, we read
from back to front. Maroon went wild,
went scarlet, burned once more
and then withdrew into pink,
tentative, still in bud.
I thought if only we could go on
and meet again, shy as strangers. 

by Lisel Mueller
from Alive Together. © Louisiana State University Press, 1996. 
Courtesy The Writer's Almanac

Happy Spring! Celebrate by sharing a poem with me in honor of National Poetry Month, which is right around the corner. You could earn yourself a free book of poetry!

One of the Lucky Queens of Henry VIII: Plain Jane

Imagine if you are subject to the whims of a madman. You cannot refuse him. You cannot deny him. You must give him what he wants — or die. You know this to be true because other women have been in the same exact position and failed.

Plain Jane presents that very conundrum faced by Jane Seymour, the third wife of Henry Tudor, known to the rest of the world, and history, as Henry VIII.

Jane is a woman who, as a child, overheard her parents describe her as unattractive, fit for a convent that they'd have to pay to take her. Her lot was to be overlooked in life and love. Or, at least, that's what she thought.

Life never happens the way one thinks.

Laurien Gardner presents a very realistic look at the Tudor court, and one of its pivotal characters. Jane is brought in as a lady-in-waiting for Queen Catherine, much beloved by the people of England and mother of Princess Mary — and numerous sons who did not live. Henry's eye alighted on the queen's French-styled lady-in-waiting, Anne Boleyn, a sassy wench who has denied the king his prize for a price: marry her and she will give him sons.

Jane sees this drama unfold from the front seat: as a lady-in-waiting to the king, she is privy to many private moments witnessed only by the sovereigns' intimates. She watches the people in the room closely, ascertaining clues  that could save their very lives if they only watched and listened rather than screaming and reacting. She knows how Anne could manage the monarch, if she only tried.

Soon, quite by surprise, she discovers her own chance to do that very thing.

I was disappointed that we spent so little time with Queen Jane. True, her reign was very short and little is known about her. However, in that case, the entire book is speculation based on reasonable information, so why not spend more time in the marriage and less in the build-up? Lady Jane became a little tedious in her self-effacement and dismissal of her own talents and qualities, and exactly what did she think people would say to her when she was swallowed whole by her violent protector who could have anyone executed (and proved it with his own beloved wives)?

We could have used her cousin Francis more to help illustrate her fate, even flesh out the world outside the chambers of the regents.

However, I liked the speculation of one of the least-known women of Henry's kingdom. I've read quite a bit by other historical novelists who spent time in the Tudor court, and this was an interesting take on a little-known woman whose life ultimately shaped England.

Laurien Gardner actually is a pseudonym of a group of fiction writers who have examined the first three wives of Henry VIII. I wouldn't mind reading another one to see if it's equally quick and easy of a read.

Ray Bradbury: A Great Writer, A Gracious Man

Ray Bradbury died Tuesday, and I am still trying to come to terms with it.

I know it sounds crazy: it's not like we were friends, right? But we were.

First of all, I am convinced he wrote for me. I was a voracious reader from an early age, and I knew Mr. Bradbury's books were meant for me. He was a space guy, which wasn't exactly my cuppa, but I trusted him — and where he took me was worth the price of admission.

Second of all, his vision was great. His scope was vast, his ideas were expansive — and yet, his stories were personal. Stuff didn't just happen, but happened to someone not unlike me. Okay, so the likelihood I would go to Mars as a child was unlikely, but it's what happened there that was personal. A Sound of Thunder resonated with me for decades after I read it, and I purchased a complete set of his short stories just so I could have it. I am a fan of time travel, and his single image of a butterfly made me ponder the responsibilities and dangers my entire life.

Finally, he was a generous man even to a young, wet-behind-the-ears feature writer.

When I was a cub reporter, I wrote about one of the best bookstores on the planet: the now-defunct Acres of Books in downtown Long Beach, California. My friend Vicky was claustrophobic when we walked in, shelves towering above us, sometimes touching low ceilings, sometimes just rising as far as physics would allow. Shoppers turned sideways when walking through the stacks, and if you passed someone in the aisle, you became very, very close friends. (I think in some countries, people would have become engaged after that contact.)

And yet I was in that bookstore every chance I got. I picked up old, brown-edged copies of paperback novels for a dime for my literature classes. (Wuthering Heights finally met its demise thirty years after I purchased it, page by page, on a Delaware beach.) I wanted to be a literature major, but my dad convinced me I'd find a better job and make better money as a journalist. I graduated one class short of a double-major, my bookshelves stocked with classic novels and classic feminist literature, all from Acres of Books.

At my first reporting job, I was able to write a weekend magazine on anything I wanted. The pay was abysmal, but I was able to write about teddy bears, Cats the musical, Chinese New Year — and Acres of Books. I had read that Mr. Bradbury was a fan of Acres of Books, having been seen in the stacks often, so I figured I'd give it a shot and see if he'd talk with me. I was nobody at a small community newspaper, but I learned that people love and trust their newspaper. Mr. Bradbury was no different. He also respected writers and loved his bookstore, and I got an interview.

I spent an hour chatting with him. I relied on a recording device attached to my phone's headset to capture the majority of the interview. However, I am a note-taker, not a doodler, so my notes still were pretty detailed. And yet — I was completely immersed in our conversation. He was gracious and generous, witty and anecdotal. He thanked me for talking with him. He. Thanked. Me.

I grew up in Los Angeles. "Stars" were a dime a dozen: movie actors, singers, people on the big screen and stage. I was in the media and took full advantage of the entertainment industry's Los Angeles offerings. I sat behind John Cusack at a movie premiere. (Yes, he was as cute as I thought he would be.) I met the Judds. I shared birthday cake with Waylon Jennings. (I don't think he ate any, but Vicky took a piece of Waylon Jenning's birthday cake home to her mom.) I interviewed Big Names. It was fun.

However, the people who left me feeling like a giddy schoolgirl were writers. In my poetry writing program, I had to try to get over that, but I never really did; I just got better at functioning while star-struck. These people wrote. I know it's hard and fun and amazing and addicting.

And Ray Bradbury thanked me for talking with him.

Some day, if I'm in the same position, I hope I have the grace and humility to know what that means to a cub reporter. I hope I can be as enthusiastic about my subject, suck them in with me, bathe them in the glory I feel — then thank them for coming along with me.

Mr. Bradbury will be missed, and not just by the aging reader who picks up his stories to travel back to her childhood and who chose a particular edition of A Princess of Mars because the great writer penned the introduction. He will be missed by the cub reporter who loved him then and loves him now, still, and will love him long after she has passed on that love of Ray Bradbury to her grandchildren.

Oh, and go to the library. It's what Mr. Bradbury would have wanted. I'll see you there.

Time Travel in Fiction, in Discos, in Colorado

If you are a fan of time travel fiction, you must pick up The Mirror by Marlys Millhiser.  This novel features one of the most unique storylines I have encountered in a long time.

Readers meet Shay, a 20-year-old blonde living in Boulder, Col., on the eve of her wedding in 1978. Her parents would like to dissuade her from this decision, but she won't budge. As her grandmother enters her bedroom, she sees the young girl trying on her bridal veil and modeling it in front of an antique mirror. The family is shocked when Grandma Bran, mute for decades due to a stroke, cries out, "Corbin!" a and drops to the floor.

Shay doesn't have time to wonder: she herself also falls to the floor — only to awaken in what looks like the same room, but can't possibly be. The people are different, the furniture is different, she is different. The veil, however, is the same, and so is the mirror.

Shay has not just traveled in time, but wound up in the body of Grandma Bran on the eve of her wedding to Corbin Strock in 1900. She knows it's the mirror that caused this (and the evidence is fascinating and irrefutable), and she focuses on how to get back to her own time and body before her 20-year-old grandmother, Brandy, weds a man her family has never heard mentioned.

At first, I was impatient. The story seemed to remain too long with Shay as Brandy, and I wondered how the other time-traveler was doing at the same time. However, I decided to trust Millhiser, and I am glad I did. It was an amazing story, a time travel tale different than any other I had yet to read.

Imagine living in someone else's body, knowing what was going to happen — kind of. There is enough mystery in any life, no matter how well you think you know someone (especially your parents or grandparents). You might wish you had paid closer attention to family lore. You might wish these family members had revealed their secrets so you'd understand better the life you found yourself living.

There is danger and folly in knowing the future. Are you causing your family to live the life they were intended to live, or one you have created because it already happened? Worse, what if they don't listen? Even worse than that, what if they do listen and think you insane?

A person from the future living in the past may be confused, but at least she has an inkling as to what will happen next. How about the woman of 1900 suddenly thrust into the world of 1978, with disco, sexual revolution, sports cars, processed food and science? Add the fact that you're surrounded by "family" totally unknown to you who think you're mentally unstable, and you'll have Brandy's life in the body of her granddaughter (that harbors a surprise of its own).

The storyline was intriguing, unpredictable, entertaining, compelling and educational. Shay was confident that she knew what was on the horizon, but it's amazing how many times she was surprised by what happened in her life.

The characters were delightful. I worried about both Shay and Brandy, both out of their elements and in danger of being "helped" by those who loved them the most. Boulder was as much a character as Shay and Brandy — as was the insidious, manipulative mirror.

In the end, Millhiser's novel was brilliant, innovative and thought-provoking. (It also made me want to return to Colorado.) I am glad I trusted this author, and I strongly suggest readers give this book a chance. You'll be glad you did.

The Great War in Fiction: The Innocents

The Great War was a huge game-changer. Modern warfare changed the landscape, literally: many of the terms in our current lexicon are thanks to the war, which we have the great misfortune of knowing now was the "first" world war.

It was unimaginable.

The Innocents goes a long way into making modern readers understand the horrors of this particular war.

Identical twins Iris and Dorthea had a difficult life. Their mother died at their birth, their father died during their childhood — so they were essentially "raised" by their (much) older brother in the opulent wealth of Eastern élite at the turn of the twentieth century. In his defense, he didn't really quite understand what it took to do that. Any mistakes were made out of ignorance, more so than intentional neglect.

Despite their privilege and opportunity, the women came to life when taking action during adversity. First, it was the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire of 1911, which was considered one of the worst disasters of New York City until the unfathomable horror that occurred early in the next century. Soon, their beloved France was deep in war, and America was poised on the brink. These women again wanted to make a difference, and the American Red Cross sent them to the French front to work as nurses. Never were they more focused than in the field hospital where, as les anges, they spoke quietly to the men who lived long enough to make it to their care, wiping fear and blood from soldiers' brows.

Even in the midst of war, they never totally escape their contemporaries, however, encountering acquaintances, not to mention at least one fighter pilot who could tell the difference between identical twins. In the madness of war, their lives were forever changed.

Author Caroline Seebohm's characters are recognizable, but not familiar. She may introduce the efficient hospital administrator, but there is no one quite like the efficient and calm Sister. Fighter pilots are never quite like Harry, a hero of Harvard's football field and hockey rink who took risks in the air much like he did on the ice.  Maurice starts out totally unassuming, but there's something about him that catches the attention of readers (and a certain identical twin). The rich, the vapid, the completely clueless Americans file past with names recognized in history and literature, adding credence to the twins' understanding of their life before the front.

Seebohm captures beautifully the horror and darkness of the Great War, the degradation of spirit as the days continue and the unimaginable unfolds before them. Each chapter has a date and location on it, so readers know where they are in history and watch the war — and life beyond the war — progress.

This is a worthy novel to join the genre that captures the loss of innocence the Great War brought about. Thanks to BBC dramas of this time period making their way across the pond, I hope more readers will seek Seebohm's bold and unflinching novel. It is worthy of their time.

Tower of London in Fiction

Imagine living in the Tower of London as a Beefeater, a member of the military who has overseen the Tower for centuries.  You'd think it would be exotic and exciting, wouldn't you?

So, I imagine, did Balthazar and Hebe.  

However, what they got was much different than they expected.  (It always is.)

In The Tower, The Zoo, and The Tortoise, author Julia Stuart creates a unique world in which these two people live, with their hurt and anguish, their hopes and dreams — and a tortoise that saw the reign of Queen Victoria.

First of all, do not read the book jacket.  Don't remove it because the illustration is just fun and lovely to see every time you pick up the book.  However, resist the urge to see what the publisher wants you to see on the inside flaps: it will spoil some of the fun.

The best part of the novel isn't the story, which is absolutely incredible, intense, surprising and entertaining.  For me, it was spending time with Balthazar and Hebe — not to mention Amanda and Arthur, Septimus, Rudy and the bearded pig.  Oh, and the albatross.  Mrs. Cook was nice enough, and she certainly rounds out the story.  So much happens in this book, one doesn't know where to start.  

Balthazar collects rain.  Septimus wants rats dead.  Ruby is the reason Monopoly was banned in the pub.  Spaniards can't all be trusted.  Pomegranate wood is rarely used, but quite beautiful.  Round walls are impossible to hang pictures on.  Moats keep things in, as well as out.  And tourists all secretly hope for blood and guts, no matter how pious they try to be.

In Stuart's world, that all makes sense.  She has the way of weaving a story that doesn't tell it all at once.  Readers must finish the book to discover what happened that fateful day, and it is not really what you expect.  Fact is woven into the fiction, so you're not really sure if the Dutch would — well, we might not have learned it had Amanda not by chance thought of herself while walking past the safe.

In the end, Mrs. Cook surprises you and you weep with the Joneses, while you secretly think the Ravenmaster is ravin' something.  You'll look up the history of Queen Anne's owl just as quickly as you would research Queen Anne.  You realize the story will unfold in tantalizing ways and you'll want to read it again just to relive the good parts — and you will realize it's all good.

Honest, Elegant Prose Dazzles in This is Where I Leave You

Judd Foxman has hit a rough spot in life.  He walked in on his wife of more than a decade, Jen, having sex with his boss.  In his marital bed. On her birthday.

Then he gets word that his father has died.  His father's dying wish is that his family sit shiva for him. Together. In one house.  All of them.

If that doesn't spell "disaster" for you the reader, just wait to see what comes next in This is Where I Leave You.

Jonathan Tropper's writing is spot-on, chatty without being verbose, descriptive to the point of voyeurism, but in a way only a family can handle.  But not any family: the Foxmans.

Let me introduce them:

• Hillary, a.k.a. Mom, a shrink who wrote a seminal book on child-rearing, using real-life experiences of her children written with a frank honesty that to this day makes every one of her offspring wince, and whose breast enhancements seem to want to jump out of her inappropriately low-cut blouses;
• Paul, the eldest son who helped his father in the family business, whose ovulating wife happens to be Judd's former girlfriend and has been attempting to become pregnant for two years;
• Wendy, the only daughter, married to the always-busy Barry, the hedgefund manager, and lives in California with her three small children;
• Judd, the former radio producer now living in the basement of a Chinese couple with frequent restroom use, whose soon-to-be ex-wife just handed him some explosive news minutes before he departs for his father's funeral; and
• Phillip, the "surprise" child, youngest by nearly a decade, who hasn't yet figured out what he wants to do with his life — but for now it involves a life coach nearly twice his age and the Ferrari she gave him.

His father, Mort, though deceased, is far from absent from the preceedings.  Readers are introduced to Mort through the reminiscing of his family.  He certainly is not romanticized by his children, whom he adored as babies but didn't know how to relate to as they grew into individuals with wills of their own. However, he is loved.

The history of those whose lives intertwined with the Foxmans are woven into the story.  There's Horry, the boy-next-door, Wendy's former soulmate who lives with his mother and works at the Foxman's sporting goods store.  There's Penny, who might be able to comfort Judd the way she used to in college, whose "honesty has always been like nudity in an action movie: gratuitous, but no less welcome."  There's Alice, who is doubly present not only as Paul's wife but also as Judd's ex-girlfriend. There's Linda, Horry's mother, who remained close to the Foxmans and helped Hillary and Mort through this trying time.  There are the Sad Mommies, Uncle Stu, Millie Rosen and her daughter Rochelle and many, many more.

The family has been raised with "no secrets," so everyone knows everyone's business, down to the sound of lovemaking that emanates through the mourner-stuffed living room, thanks to a forgotten baby monitor.

Judd is the perfect narrator, frank and thorough in his descriptions. Phillip is the "Paul McCartney of our family: better-looking than the rest of us, always facing a different direction in pictures, and occasional rumored to be dead."  Wendy "can be funny, almost charming in her pointed tactlessness, but if there's a line between crass and cruel, she's never noticed it."  Seeing Jen makes Judd

"instantly chagrined, not because she's obviously found out that I'm living in a crappy rented basement, but because ever since I moved out, seeing her makes me feel like I've been caught in a private, embarrassing moment — watching porn with my hand in my pants, singing along with Air Supply while picking my nose at a red light."

His three-year-old nephew Cole speaks with "high-pitched sincerity" and "immigrant English."  Judd's marriage ended "the way these things do: with paramedics and cheesecake."  And his description of seeing the couple on his bed he would give to "Jen — my Jen" when he got home — only he was home, and "my Jen didn't exist anymore, has dispersed into the mist right before my eyes."

Judd paints with vivid colors.  He shines a light on the foibles of family, where every word spoken is weighed down by every word and gesture that came before it.  Needless to say, the five remaining Foxmans finish the shiva after enduring seven days on low chairs with injuries, sex, fisticuffs, blood, "Sweet Home Alabama" (more than once), marijuana, resolutions and opened wounds.

It is a well-written, thoroughly satisfying book about family that makes everyone feel better.  I recommend it thoroughly: buy it, read it, weep and laugh.