Here is the opening chapter of my work-in-progress, tentatively titled "Helicopter Mom". It will be a middle grade novel.
I remember riding with my grandparents on the interstate one afternoon. I don’t know where we were going or how long ago it was, but I am certain it was a summer weekend, or maybe a Friday. The traffic was pretty heavy and there were lots of RV’s and luggage racks passing us. Some distance ahead was a sparkling white pickup truck hauling a long motor boat, a runabout, my grandfather had said. The truck was traveling pretty fast despite its load. Suddenly the wind swept into the boat’s open cockpit, scooped out one of the blue foam seat cushions, and sent it tumbling through the air like one of Lucifer’s angels, into the speeding traffic behind it. There was no way that seat cushion was going to do any damage on its own, but it landed on the windshield of a very young girl driving a bright green car. She must have recently earned her driver’s license because she panicked when the thing slapped dead center on the glass and stuck there like a pancake on the ceiling. She swerved sharply to the right, then to the left into the fast lane where her car was struck hard by a minivan. The driver of the car behind the minivan swerved into the right lane to avoid a collision, narrowly missing a tractor-trailer. The driver of the tractor-trailer jerked his truck out of the path of the swerving car, sending the big rig off the highway and into a ditch. Traffic on the highway on that summer afternoon came to an abrupt halt, and those of us behind the wreckage waited quietly for several hours while emergency vehicles cleared the scene.
The driver hauling the motorboat, however, continued on his way, oblivious to the calamity he had created. I imagined him arriving at a little cabin along the river, or maybe a condo at the bay, unhitching the boat, and discovering the missing seat cushion. I pictured him blaming his wife for not having secured the cushion more carefully, and his wife blaming him for being in too great a hurry to allow time to attach the boat cover. I imagined him complaining about the great inconvenience it was causing him, now having to spend part of his vacation searching for a replacement, or sitting on a hot plastic seat with no cushion. I thought of him reading about the horrendous accident on the interstate and thinking, “What a shame! So glad I wasn’t involved in that mess.” And he would go through life never knowing, never believing it was possible that he was more than just “involved.”
The driver of that pickup truck is my mother.
I don’t mean she was actually driving the truck that caused the accident on the interstate that summer afternoon. But she is the kind of person who can walk into a room or a building or a life, go about her business as she sees fit, and leave behind chaos and carnage without ever looking over her shoulder.
And I—
I am a blue foam seat cushion.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Chaos Walking - a review
Patrick Ness has created a world in which men's thoughts are broadcast as Noise for all to hear. When a scouting ship crashes into the swamp, Todd meets Viola, the only survivor, and the only female human Todd has even seen, except in the distorted thoughts of the men of his town. Todd discovers that not everything he has been told about his town or the death of his mother is true, and that he and Viola are in mortal danger. They flee, heading for Haven, a place where it is said there is a cure for the Noise. They seek healing and hope.
The Knife of Never Letting Go and The Ask and the Answer are the first two books in the Chaos Walking Trilogy. Book three is due next spring. Each book is a tome of 500-odd pages, but they read quickly. Yes, they read very, very quickly!
Besides the intriguing discussion in a previous post, I will say there is much to like about these books. The characters are admirable, imperfect, driven. The bad guys are really, really bad, and the good guys are flawed and sincere.
The most appealing character in The Knife of Never Letting Go is Manchee, Todd’s dog, whom he never wanted, and for whom he seems to have little affection. Manchee is brilliantly crafted by Ness. Loyal, needy, and just as stupid as a dog can be, Manchee escapes with Todd and Viola. Manchee’s noise is poignant and often hilarious, and in his own way, he is the hero of the first book.
The plot is a little less believable, and even tedious at times. I found myself asking, "What's the point?" several times, wondering why the Mayor of Prentiss would seek Todd to the ends of the earth (or, whatever planet it is). But it is a trilogy, and maybe it will come to light in book three.
Nevertheless, there is a great deal of violence. The violence is brutal and graphically described. Todd is beaten senseless numerous times. He also gives his share of beating. But Ness allows Todd to feel an overwhelming and life-changing grief for the violence he perpetrates. This motivates his actions for the rest of the story. However, I could not help but cringe, and even skim when the violence seemed to go on and on.
The center of the book is the Noise. The Noise becomes a tool, even a weapon in the Mayor's personal war. It is like a character of its own. But it is more than that. Besides being a genius plot element, Ness has created a way to make his first person point of view into an omniscient narrator. This omniscience is limited only by the one female character, Viola. This limit is overcome (disappointingly, in my opinion) in the second book when the author alternates between Todd and Viola.
Chaos Walking is a young adult offering (grades 8-12). Many of the gentle families I know would not offer this to their 13-year-olds, or even 16-year-olds. There is violence. There is some harsh language. Todd relates that he said, "Effing, but I didn't use the word 'effing'." The real word is used at least once that I remember, as well as the word G.-d. There is no sex, at least not in the first two books. In fact, there is a genuine love that grows between Viola and Todd, to the point where they are willing to suffer for one another.
Would I recommend this for your child? I recommend you read it for yourself and decide what you think about it. The most astounding part of my job as a librarian is when mothers come in asking me what their children should read. How should I know what YOUR child should read? In the past, even among friends, I have made the mistake of offering books to parents, only to have them turn on me with judgment on my own parenting, "that I would EVER recommend such trash to a child!" So, I have no idea if your child should read it. This blog is not for me to recommend to you, but to tell you what I liked and disliked about books, reading, and writing. I read these two books and enjoyed them, even sitting up late to read just one more chapter. And I am waiting eagerly for book three!
The Knife of Never Letting Go and The Ask and the Answer are the first two books in the Chaos Walking Trilogy. Book three is due next spring. Each book is a tome of 500-odd pages, but they read quickly. Yes, they read very, very quickly!
Besides the intriguing discussion in a previous post, I will say there is much to like about these books. The characters are admirable, imperfect, driven. The bad guys are really, really bad, and the good guys are flawed and sincere.
The most appealing character in The Knife of Never Letting Go is Manchee, Todd’s dog, whom he never wanted, and for whom he seems to have little affection. Manchee is brilliantly crafted by Ness. Loyal, needy, and just as stupid as a dog can be, Manchee escapes with Todd and Viola. Manchee’s noise is poignant and often hilarious, and in his own way, he is the hero of the first book.
The plot is a little less believable, and even tedious at times. I found myself asking, "What's the point?" several times, wondering why the Mayor of Prentiss would seek Todd to the ends of the earth (or, whatever planet it is). But it is a trilogy, and maybe it will come to light in book three.
Nevertheless, there is a great deal of violence. The violence is brutal and graphically described. Todd is beaten senseless numerous times. He also gives his share of beating. But Ness allows Todd to feel an overwhelming and life-changing grief for the violence he perpetrates. This motivates his actions for the rest of the story. However, I could not help but cringe, and even skim when the violence seemed to go on and on.
The center of the book is the Noise. The Noise becomes a tool, even a weapon in the Mayor's personal war. It is like a character of its own. But it is more than that. Besides being a genius plot element, Ness has created a way to make his first person point of view into an omniscient narrator. This omniscience is limited only by the one female character, Viola. This limit is overcome (disappointingly, in my opinion) in the second book when the author alternates between Todd and Viola.
Chaos Walking is a young adult offering (grades 8-12). Many of the gentle families I know would not offer this to their 13-year-olds, or even 16-year-olds. There is violence. There is some harsh language. Todd relates that he said, "Effing, but I didn't use the word 'effing'." The real word is used at least once that I remember, as well as the word G.-d. There is no sex, at least not in the first two books. In fact, there is a genuine love that grows between Viola and Todd, to the point where they are willing to suffer for one another.
Would I recommend this for your child? I recommend you read it for yourself and decide what you think about it. The most astounding part of my job as a librarian is when mothers come in asking me what their children should read. How should I know what YOUR child should read? In the past, even among friends, I have made the mistake of offering books to parents, only to have them turn on me with judgment on my own parenting, "that I would EVER recommend such trash to a child!" So, I have no idea if your child should read it. This blog is not for me to recommend to you, but to tell you what I liked and disliked about books, reading, and writing. I read these two books and enjoyed them, even sitting up late to read just one more chapter. And I am waiting eagerly for book three!
Thoughts Laid Bare
The Chaos Walking trilogy (still waiting for book three!), by Patrick Ness, has recently intrigued me. The first book, The Knife of Never Letting Go, introduces Todd Hewitt, the youngest member of a group of colonists on a futuristic planet much like earth. The settlers have been infected by a germ which has killed all the women, and left the men with an oppressive Noise. The Noise is the constant broadcasting of their thoughts. The author cleverly and convincingly depicts the Noise and the maddening confusion it causes. There are no secrets. There is no hiding. Dreams are public. The insults and rude remarks Todd would politely keep to himself are transmitted into the heads of anyone within his proximity. Everyone’s private plans are everyone else’s business. Even the animals’ thoughts are overheard.
Without rehasing the plot or even stating my opinion (although I may do that later), I want to focus on this aspect of the book alone. This is not about mind-reading, although there are some characters who are able to probe deeply into the thoughts of others. The characters in this book have no ability to prevent others from hearing them. There are rumors that another colony has discovered a cure for the germ, a medicine which quiets the noise, and which must be taken for the rest of one’s life. But the Noise is something the colonists have learned to live with, although many do not cope so well.
We find in the second book, The Ask and the Answer, that there are women in other colonies on the planet. But the women do not have Noise. They can hear the broadcast of the men’s thoughts, but female thoughts are not broadcast. In one town, the women move their sleeping quarters to a far corner of the town so they can sleep without being disturbed by the men’s Noise. In another town, loud music is played over speakers to drown out the Noise.
The sinister mayor of Todd’s town has gained such control over his thoughts that, by the second book, he has the power to hurl thoughts at people with enough force to injure them physically. The mayor’s efforts to command his own thoughts have become a religion to him. It is with prayer-like devotion that he practices his self-control, and he attempts to train others to do the same. He is disciplined and ruthless. His ability to silence his Noise, or to manipulate his thoughts give him a power no one can dispute.
There is no silence. There can never be silence. And when there is, it is terrifying and bewildering .
Imagine. If everyone knew what I thought at every moment, would I have any friends? If I knew what others truly thought of me, would I want their friendship? To have our thoughts made public would easily allow our enemies (dare I say Enemy?) to manipulate us. On the other hand, there would be no more façade. There could be no undetected lies. We might learn more about ourselves through other people’s thoughts than we do from our own self-aggrandizing meditations.
Todd’s real frustration is that it is hard to concentrate on things he wants to consider. His own thoughts are interrupted and lost amid the chaos. And really, are we so far from this? Although we do not hear each other’s thoughts, we are truly in a place where silence is terrifying and bewildering. We allow and invite Noise to such a level that we do not know what to do with silence. We do not know how to corral our thoughts when they are so jumbled in the Noise. I, for one, would have finished a half-dozen writing projects, but for the want of long, long silences.
This is fodder for discussion on so many levels!
Without rehasing the plot or even stating my opinion (although I may do that later), I want to focus on this aspect of the book alone. This is not about mind-reading, although there are some characters who are able to probe deeply into the thoughts of others. The characters in this book have no ability to prevent others from hearing them. There are rumors that another colony has discovered a cure for the germ, a medicine which quiets the noise, and which must be taken for the rest of one’s life. But the Noise is something the colonists have learned to live with, although many do not cope so well.
We find in the second book, The Ask and the Answer, that there are women in other colonies on the planet. But the women do not have Noise. They can hear the broadcast of the men’s thoughts, but female thoughts are not broadcast. In one town, the women move their sleeping quarters to a far corner of the town so they can sleep without being disturbed by the men’s Noise. In another town, loud music is played over speakers to drown out the Noise.
The sinister mayor of Todd’s town has gained such control over his thoughts that, by the second book, he has the power to hurl thoughts at people with enough force to injure them physically. The mayor’s efforts to command his own thoughts have become a religion to him. It is with prayer-like devotion that he practices his self-control, and he attempts to train others to do the same. He is disciplined and ruthless. His ability to silence his Noise, or to manipulate his thoughts give him a power no one can dispute.
There is no silence. There can never be silence. And when there is, it is terrifying and bewildering .
Imagine. If everyone knew what I thought at every moment, would I have any friends? If I knew what others truly thought of me, would I want their friendship? To have our thoughts made public would easily allow our enemies (dare I say Enemy?) to manipulate us. On the other hand, there would be no more façade. There could be no undetected lies. We might learn more about ourselves through other people’s thoughts than we do from our own self-aggrandizing meditations.
Todd’s real frustration is that it is hard to concentrate on things he wants to consider. His own thoughts are interrupted and lost amid the chaos. And really, are we so far from this? Although we do not hear each other’s thoughts, we are truly in a place where silence is terrifying and bewildering. We allow and invite Noise to such a level that we do not know what to do with silence. We do not know how to corral our thoughts when they are so jumbled in the Noise. I, for one, would have finished a half-dozen writing projects, but for the want of long, long silences.
This is fodder for discussion on so many levels!
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Self-worth
Last week my brand new vacuum cleaner stopped working. It was the second time I had used it. Let me reword this so you get the full impact of my statement: I had used the vacuum cleaner one other time before it stopped working.
I am minimizing the issue. The vacuum did not stop working. The vacuum broke. Homer (from The Iliad, not from The Simpsons) might say, "the vacuum received no small injury."
This is the third vacuum cleaner I have owned since moving into this apartment three years ago. The carpet in my apartment is a vacuum murderer. Shoddily installed (and cheap to begin with), it frays into long, thick fibers which become instantly tangled in the rotating mechanism of the vacuum, revving the motor to impossibly high temperatures, and burning it out in a matter a seconds. Despite my care to avoid the areas of the carpet where this fraying occurs, one moment of distraction or forgetfulness is all it takes.
Now, the challenge: relate this saga to life. This is what a writer does.
Am I the vacuum cleaner, going about my life, doing my job, fulfilling my destiny, caught off guard by something trivial, and sidelined indefinitely? Do I appear to be strong and sturdy, but am really weak and easily dismantled?
Or am I the ragged and frayed carpet, inferior in quality and bitter about it, raging in ways almost undetectable, yet potent enough to bring down anyone who tries to improve me, anyone whose life is more complete, anyone who risks getting too close? Do I seem to be the kind who allows, even invites others to walk all over me, but in reality I lure them into my vengeance?
Maybe I am neither. Maybe I am simply the woman vacuuming a crappy carpet with a crappy vacuum cleaner, and I really need to watch where I'm going.
I am minimizing the issue. The vacuum did not stop working. The vacuum broke. Homer (from The Iliad, not from The Simpsons) might say, "the vacuum received no small injury."
This is the third vacuum cleaner I have owned since moving into this apartment three years ago. The carpet in my apartment is a vacuum murderer. Shoddily installed (and cheap to begin with), it frays into long, thick fibers which become instantly tangled in the rotating mechanism of the vacuum, revving the motor to impossibly high temperatures, and burning it out in a matter a seconds. Despite my care to avoid the areas of the carpet where this fraying occurs, one moment of distraction or forgetfulness is all it takes.
Now, the challenge: relate this saga to life. This is what a writer does.
Am I the vacuum cleaner, going about my life, doing my job, fulfilling my destiny, caught off guard by something trivial, and sidelined indefinitely? Do I appear to be strong and sturdy, but am really weak and easily dismantled?
Or am I the ragged and frayed carpet, inferior in quality and bitter about it, raging in ways almost undetectable, yet potent enough to bring down anyone who tries to improve me, anyone whose life is more complete, anyone who risks getting too close? Do I seem to be the kind who allows, even invites others to walk all over me, but in reality I lure them into my vengeance?
Maybe I am neither. Maybe I am simply the woman vacuuming a crappy carpet with a crappy vacuum cleaner, and I really need to watch where I'm going.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Smells Like Color blindness
What does memory smell like?
Does childhood smell like a goldfish in a dank and filmy bowl of water on the kitchen counter?
Does it smell like comet and macaroni and cheese on my mother's skin?
Does it smell like urine and vomit and beer on the living room sofa?
Does it smell like salt water and spaghetti and the sweat of hard play?
I love describing smells. I love creating metaphors from nothing, allowing odor to take on a different sense, like sight or sound, giving it a color or timbre. These are things I understand.
Smell does not make sense to me. I ask my children questions like, "Do you always smell? Can you not smell if you don't want to, the same way you can close your eyes to not see or plug your ears to not hear?" I ask, "What color is the smell of rain?" They cannot tell me the answers. They do not know. They do not understand smell either, even though it is something they possess.
Having no sense of smell used to be confusing to me. I was angry at my mother, thinking she had forgotten to teach me something that she had taught my brothers and sisters. She taught us to read, to write our names, to say our prayers, to brush our teeth. And to the others she secretly taught the way to smell.
My friends at school would push a tiny glass bottle of pale yellow perfume under my nose and say, "Smell this!"
I would sniff, experiencing nothing, and wait for the cue.
"You don't think that stinks?"
TO which I would reply, "Oh, yeah, it's terrible. Definitely not my favorite."
Or "It's heavenly, isn't it!"
And I would say, "Mmm. That's nice."
Soon I started saying, "No, really, I don't care for the smell of perfume." Or, "I must have allergies because I can't smell it."
I was in high school before I realized that I really, truly did not smell anything. I accepted it. I embraced it. Now I boast of it.
I do not smell the litter box as soon as I walk into the apartment. I do not smell my son's generous application of cologne. I did not smell the diapers of three babies. I do not smell the neighbor's cigar smoke lingering in the hallway. I do not smell the odor of death and decay in my in-laws' house. I do not smell the pungent, unwashed laundry on my daughter's floor. I do not smell the unidentifiable food rotting in the refrigerator. And I would not trade this ignorant bliss for a thousand turkey dinners or pine Christmases.
Does childhood smell like a goldfish in a dank and filmy bowl of water on the kitchen counter?
Does it smell like comet and macaroni and cheese on my mother's skin?
Does it smell like urine and vomit and beer on the living room sofa?
Does it smell like salt water and spaghetti and the sweat of hard play?
I love describing smells. I love creating metaphors from nothing, allowing odor to take on a different sense, like sight or sound, giving it a color or timbre. These are things I understand.
Smell does not make sense to me. I ask my children questions like, "Do you always smell? Can you not smell if you don't want to, the same way you can close your eyes to not see or plug your ears to not hear?" I ask, "What color is the smell of rain?" They cannot tell me the answers. They do not know. They do not understand smell either, even though it is something they possess.
Having no sense of smell used to be confusing to me. I was angry at my mother, thinking she had forgotten to teach me something that she had taught my brothers and sisters. She taught us to read, to write our names, to say our prayers, to brush our teeth. And to the others she secretly taught the way to smell.
My friends at school would push a tiny glass bottle of pale yellow perfume under my nose and say, "Smell this!"
I would sniff, experiencing nothing, and wait for the cue.
"You don't think that stinks?"
TO which I would reply, "Oh, yeah, it's terrible. Definitely not my favorite."
Or "It's heavenly, isn't it!"
And I would say, "Mmm. That's nice."
Soon I started saying, "No, really, I don't care for the smell of perfume." Or, "I must have allergies because I can't smell it."
I was in high school before I realized that I really, truly did not smell anything. I accepted it. I embraced it. Now I boast of it.
I do not smell the litter box as soon as I walk into the apartment. I do not smell my son's generous application of cologne. I did not smell the diapers of three babies. I do not smell the neighbor's cigar smoke lingering in the hallway. I do not smell the odor of death and decay in my in-laws' house. I do not smell the pungent, unwashed laundry on my daughter's floor. I do not smell the unidentifiable food rotting in the refrigerator. And I would not trade this ignorant bliss for a thousand turkey dinners or pine Christmases.
Tuesday evening.
This night is set aside for me to write. I wait at the mall where I get free wifi while my son attends his CAP meeting. And I write. I write thousands of words. Tomes. I have finished three novels in the past year. These are all lies. I am practicing to write fiction by telling lies. I have eleven Tuesdays left before my son leaves for Basic Training, and then my Tuesday nights are gone.
So, in the spirit of true procrastination, I blog. Let's say I use the blog to fire my creative juices. I may very well write a thousand words. They may be nothing more than blog-worthy. But somewhere amid the drivel I may find a golden crumb, maybe a metaphor or an allegory. Maybe I will happen upon an inspiring character name.
Or maybe I will reply to the annoy blip which tells me someone wants to chat with me.
This night is set aside for me to write. I wait at the mall where I get free wifi while my son attends his CAP meeting. And I write. I write thousands of words. Tomes. I have finished three novels in the past year. These are all lies. I am practicing to write fiction by telling lies. I have eleven Tuesdays left before my son leaves for Basic Training, and then my Tuesday nights are gone.
So, in the spirit of true procrastination, I blog. Let's say I use the blog to fire my creative juices. I may very well write a thousand words. They may be nothing more than blog-worthy. But somewhere amid the drivel I may find a golden crumb, maybe a metaphor or an allegory. Maybe I will happen upon an inspiring character name.
Or maybe I will reply to the annoy blip which tells me someone wants to chat with me.
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