A real perk of blogging about all things bookish has been the opportunity to meet new writers, to learn more about their writing process, and share in the joys of their success.  One of my favorite authors/bloggers,Beth Kephart, has a new book, Nothing But Ghosts, being ushered into the world this week. 

Luminous- that’s the word which always comes to mind when I read Beth’s writing, whether it’s in her books or her daily blog posts.  It’s like a Debussy prelude on the piano, or a Monet watercolor ~ imbued with delicate,  intricate passion.   She encourages me to look at the world more closely, to see past the surface of people and things into the deepest part of their existence.  To look for the beauty, even when it’s sometimes hidden so deeply. 

If you don’t know Beth, now would be a good time to meet her.   As Nothing But Ghosts  makes it’s debut, there are numerous virtual events to celebrate it’s release.  Visit her blog, read her interview at Presenting Lenore, attend the book party on June 30, hosted by My Friend Amy.  Get hold of a copy of Nothing But Ghosts and lose yourself in her beautiful writing. 

Of course, some of my favorite writers were well before the time of book blogging.  But that doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate them in cyberspace.  Stephanie, of The Written Word, is hosting an Everything Austen Challenge- that’s Jane Austen, of course.  To participate, simply choose six Austen-themed books or movies to read/watch in the next six months.  

While I rarely participate in challenges, this just seems like too much fun to pass up.  I’ve read each of the Austen novels more than once, but I’ve chosen to read Sense and Sensibility again, and watch the movie adaptation with Emma Thompson and Kate Winslet.  I believe I even have the movie’s soundtrack on CD somewhere to listen to while I’m reading <smiles>.   I’ll also be reading The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen, which has been languishing on my TBR pile for some time, and I plan to watch Lost in Austen, a British TV miniseries which looks like great fun.  For some time, I’ve intended to read Stephanie Barron’s series of mysteries with Jane as Detective, and this is the perfect time to read the first, Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor.  Finally, Jane Austen Ruined My Life, a novel by Beth Pattilo.

So many wonderful new reading opportunities…aren’t books grand?

I suppose it was the accident that wild, wet night on Wildmoor that got me writing this story.  This…call it Gothic modern tale, complete with family curses, unquiet spirits, forbidden love – a bizarre crime, even; seasoned of course, with ’90’s grabbiness and irony.  

Thus begins Erica Abeel’s Conscience Point, a marvelous tale as told by one Madelaine Shaye, a concert pianist/TV arts correspondent, who seems to have the ubiquitous “everything” a middle aged woman could want…a successful career, a great relationship with her teenage daughter, and best of all, a steamy love affair with the man of her dreams.   But, as befits any good Gothic drama, things begin to unravel, and in the unraveling a slew of secrets are revealed, forcing Maddy to answer some very difficult questions about her past while making equally difficult decisions about her future.

Abeel’s writing is sharp, witty, and modern, adding a unique twist to the distinctly Gothic feel of this novel.  She gets the atmosphere and the characters just right, and has a real flair for setting the scene, as well as for depicting (with just the right touch of tongue in cheek) the world of trendy New York arts and media.

Because she’s a pianist, I fell in love with Maddy immediately, and Abeel writes about music so honestly I feel she must be a player herself. 

She played every scale in every key, punching holes in the stillness of Conscience Point.  Paganini made people weep with the playing of a scale, Madame O once said.  Arpeggios, octaves, shakes – she played them prestissimo and without the slightest break, modulations flowing from key to key.  All these weeks estranged from the piano, yet the music resided in her fingers like a neglected lover who’d remained perversely loyal.

But even if you’re not a musician, there’s a story for you here… there’s a love triangle, mother-daughter relationship drama, the struggles of a 21st century career woman, the realization of a long treasured dream,  all surrounded by an old fashioned Gothic style mystery, complete with a mansion in the wilderness.  In less capable hands, this novel could have been an epic disaster, but Abeel deftly handles all these storylines, and keeps the action moving smartly along.

My only complaint about this novel – and I’ll admit, this is petty – is the cover.  Yikes!  Those abstract faces in stark black and white make me cringe.  If I were choosing a book by its cover (and yes, covers influence me, especially if I have no previous information to go on) I would quickly pass this one by.  

And that would be a shame, because Conscience Point  is a really good read.

 Woman Reading in a Landscape, 1869, Jean Baptiste Camille Corot

When Corot painted this young woman so totally immersed in her book, little could he have imagined that another woman some 160 years later would happen across this photo while browsing on the Internet and be struck speechless by the resemblance to herself and her situation that very same day.

Alas, I’m much older than Corot’s subject here, and my loose fitting capri pants and sleeveless t-shirt can’t even compare with the long skirt and apron adorning this woman’s figure,  but her pose, her intense focus on the tome propped open on her knee, the curved hand at her cheek, are all mirror images of the way I was sitting in my backyard earlier today.

Her landscape is lovely, isn’t it? yet she seems oblivious to the placid water and the young man seated in the rowboat who seems to be gazing across the lake, disappointed that his lady fair would not leave her book behind and join his outing.   Sadly, there was no water in my view today, simply the tall pine trees standing sentry across the width of my backyard, and the pale pink blossoms on the new impatiens I added to fill in some bare spots in the garden.

Naturally, I wonder what she’s reading…it looks as if it might be poetry, which would explain the look of deep concentration, the slight furrow in the brow.  Or perhaps it’s her own diary, the journal of her most secret thoughts which she has tucked into her apron pocket to peruse on this sunny hillside.   Of course, I could be wrong on both counts, and it’s the 19th century version of “beach reading,” a frothy Gothic type novel so popular in those times.  (Remember  Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen’s satiric look at this genre?)

As for my “landscape reading” today, you needn’t wonder…it was Prayers for Sale, a delightful historical novel by Sandra Dallas, about the friendship which develops between two women – one young, and one old – in a small Colorado mining town in the mid-1930’s.

So there you have it, the story of two women Reading in a Landscape.

Now tell me, have you done any landscape reading recently?  Where’s your favorite place to read outdoors?  And what were you reading there?

So! In my Official Capacity as a writer of science fiction and fantasy, I hereby proclaim June 23 Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Day! A day of celebration and wonder! A day for all of us readers of science fiction and fantasy to reach out and say thank you to our favorite writers. A day, perhaps, to blog about our favorite sf/f writers. A day to reflect upon how written science fiction and fantasy has changed your life.

So … what might you do on the 23rd to celebrate? Do you even read fantasy/sci-fi? Why? Why not?

I’ve occasionally wondered why science fiction and fantasy writing have such little appeal for me.  Is it because I’m so bound to realty, so tethered to earth, that my mind refuses to suspend the disbelief necessary to fully engage in this type of fiction writing? Do I prefer reality based writing , the way my eyes are drawn to realistic artwork and my ears to tonal music, because it’s familiar and safe? 

I have immense respect for sci-fi and fantasy writers, for the humongous leaps their imaginations have made into an alternate universe where no man has gone before.  Occasionally I chastise myself for my lack of receptiveness to this genre, and urge myself to browse the sci-fi section at the bookstore. 

But somehow I can never take the leap, and shy away at the last minute as I might do if someone were to hold the door of a rocket ship open and invite me in.

“Thank you, but no,”  I would say, characteristically polite.  “I’m sure it’s lovely out there, but I prefer to keep my feet firmly planted on the ground.”

Now tell me,  if you read sci-fi or fantasy, what do you love about it?  And if I were to screw up my courage and take a leap into this genre, where would be a good place to start?

In a week of unexpected difficulties – an elderly family member hospitalized after a fall, then word of another dear friend in critical care last night - my books have been a solace once again, helping to pass the long, anxious hours while waiting for news, redirecting my thoughts from fears and worries, removing me from the scenes of suffering and sadness.

Luckily I was in the midst of a wonderful saga, one of those big books that carries you through the length and breadth of a character’s life.  Cutting for Stone  is an expansive tale of family love and betrayal, of politics and intrigue, of medicine and superstition, of love and heartbreak.  It tells the story of Marion and Shiva Stone, identical twins born of the union between a famous surgeon and a quiet nun.  Left orphans by their mother’s death in childbirth and their father’s disappearance, the boys grow up in a makeshift but loving family.  The boys come of age as their country (Ethiopia) endures political revolution, while their love for the same woman brings a similar upheaval to their own preternaturally close relationship.

It’s not difficult to lose oneself in this sort of book, for Abraham Verghese’s writing draws you into the story wherever the page falls open.  Which is important in times of crisis, when  one is liable to drop the book at a moment’s notice as a doctor walks into the room or a telephone rings.  Even though it’s large and heavy to tote around hospital corridors and waiting rooms, it’s heft is something of a solace, knowing there is plenty of story there to keep me company.

It has happened before that books have kept me company during times of illness and strife.  I recall reading Gone With the Windduring the time my grandfather was hospitalized with lung cancer, and Scarlett’s troubles were the perfect antidote for a scared, worried 15 year year old.  When I went into labor with my son, I happened to be reading Theodore Dreiser’s An American Tragedy (strange choice, I know), so that book stayed on my hospital night stand for five days after his birth as he was treated for jaundice.  Two years ago, while my husband was having surgery, it was Piece of My Heart, the latest Peter Robinson mystery.

Any ravenous reader can attest to the fact that “there is no frigate like a book…”  a ballast of safety in a world unexpectedly gone awry.  So my book will go with me today, as I leave for my hospital rounds, a small comfort in a world of storm.

Now tell me, which books have sustained you during difficult times?

I jumped inside the ring, all of me.  Dance, then, and I danced,

till the room blurred like water, like blood, dance,

and I was leaning headlong into the universe,

Dance!  The whole self was a current, a fragile cargo,

a raft someone was paddling through the jungle,

and I was there, waving, and I would be there at the other end.

            ~from The Whole Self, a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye

All my reading of late leads me to thoughts of dancing – perhaps not dancing literally, but more of the metaphorical kind, as in letting your spirit freely follow whatever drumbeat sounds in your soul, as in putting aside the cares of daily life and shouting for joy at the morning sun and midnight rain.  As in finding the thing that roars inside you, and then making it over and over again. 

Two books last week had me thinking on dancing… Undercover, a compelling, luminously written young adult novel by Beth Kephart, and Conscience Point, a sleek, sophisticated modern Gothic tale by Erica Abeel.  At the center of both books are women (one young, one not so much) who find something they are passionate about and let it lead them from the shadows into fulfillment. 

In other words, they “jump inside the ring…and dance.”

For Elisa Cantor, the teenaged heroine of  Undercover, dancing means grabbing onto her vision of the world and using her way with words to shake it open for all the world to see.  It means finding her footing on the razor’s edge of an icy pond and learning not only to stand tall on her two feet and skate, but to spin and jump and whirl. 

And for Madeleine Shaye, in Conscience Point -a woman nearing her fifth decade of life - dancing means accepting the loss of an old lover in order to reclaim a dream long forgotten.  It means returning to her passion for music and making it work in an entirely new way, one that is completely of her own devising and not linked to the needs or demands of any other. 

It isn’t surprising that a passion for art leads both these women to the dance floor.  How often words and music, or paints and stone, even fabric and yarn, set the creative rhythm in motion.  How lucky for Elisa, that she manages to find this passion so early in life, to be able to set herself on this course at the age of 15, and (hopefully) not veer from it but only learn to dance longer, stronger, and more freely.

And yet, thank you Maddy Shaye, for showing me its never too late -oh no! never! -to “keep faith with yourself.”   To  know that, even when “all you’ve held onto so dearly has slipped through your fingers like fairy dust”  it is possible for “fresh joys” to “come knocking, unforseen.”

The selection of verse I quoted at the start is actually the end of the poem…it’s beginning is this ~

When I think of the long history of the self

on its journey to becoming the whole self, I get tired.

It was the kind of trip you keep making,

Over and over again…

But I do believe the journey is made easier and more lovely by dancing, don’t you?

Now tell me, what does it mean to dance in your life?

Do you have a set reading time (before bed, perhaps?)  Do you read more at night or during the day?  Is there a day of the week that you set aside to catch up on reading?

My day begins and ends with reading, for the first thing I do upon rising (after pouring that first cup of coffee!) is settle into my favorite armchair with a book.   My living room faces east, so I can keep one eye on the sunrise while I read, and the morning sky is often streaked with orange and magenta as the sun makes its way above the stand of oak trees in my across-the-street neighbor’s back yard.  Before long, at least one of the dogs will join me, climbing sleepily onto the back of the chair behind me.    And so we usually  pass the first hour of the day.  Mornings are the most productive reading time for me, and I try to keep a notebook at hand to jot down page numbers or quotes, or thoughts that strike me while reading.

At close of day, in those last few moments before falling asleep, I take up my book once again.  It provides solace from the worries and concerns of the day, and lets my mind drift into a different place before I fall asleep. 

Now tell me, when and where do you do your best reading?

 Flowers – they’re everywhere, in glorious profusion…the thought of them distracts me when I’m driving, when I’m walking, and when I’m shopping, pulling my eye away from the mundane fruits and vegetables to the burgeoning blossoms in the garden center attached to my favorite market.

I have two new garden areas at my house, one started last year, and so this spring is in its first real flower.  The other is a brand new space, 40 feet of dark, rich soil, where the morning sun illuminates the northern corner and cool shade takes over the south end.   I’m collecting perennials – iris, astilbe, fern, delphinium, day lilies, hostas, bleeding heart, and a large butterfly bush.   Every day, I go out and rearrange the pots, setting them here and there, stepping back to look, and then jumping in to re-arrange once more.  I realize how much more I need – a bit more yellow here, some white over there, and always green, dark and luscious against the black mulch.

It’s a bit like writing, I think, this flowering business, and perhaps that is why so many writers and poets are also gardeners.  Choosing just the right plant for the right spot in your garden, clearing out thickets and weeds, deadheading to inspire new growth – all reminiscent of the writing process itself.  Words  bloom with proper care, and leave lovely lasting impressions on the senses, just like a beautiful garden.

I have lots to read for the week ahead…Cutting Stone, Prayers for Sale, and Conscience Point are coming near the top of the stack.  I’ll be finishing Undercover today, I think, as I awoke at 4:30 this morning, and simply powered right through this great young adult novel by Beth Kephart.

But now, I’m off to play in my garden again.

What’s growing in your reading garden this week?

Yesterday was my ritual trip to Barnes and Noble – I always make it a point to visit the mega store here in Naples because it’s the one time I have lots of room to browse and see what’s new and exciting.  I confess – I carry a little notebook in my purse to jot down the books I intend to request from the library.  Alas, if I were to buy every book read, there would be no room in either of my houses for anything else and my retirement would be even further off than it already is *sigh*.

This particular trip, I perused the marvelous section of bargain books, the remainders I believe they’re called.  I dithered a bit about getting one, but since I was coming to the end of the second book I had brought with me, I decided to pick up something in case I needed another read for the plane.   Here’s the one I chose – a perfect vacation read, I thought, about “six unique and vibrant individuals who come together to follow their dreams” at the annual Edinburgh International Festival.

 Here’s the thing, though.   Ever since I started reading, I’ve had this prickly sense of deja vu.  The odd thing is that only some of the sections seem familiar, as if I’d read them somewhere before, while others are perfectly fresh and new.

Now I’ve occasionally picked up a book that I’ve already read – I think every ravenous reader has done that at least once.   I  usually realize my blunder within about 10 pages, and after chastising myself properly, return the book to the library (or take it to my second hand bookstore if I’ve been foolish enough to purchase it!)

But this experience is a bit different, for it’s not as if the entire novel is familiar, but only bits and pieces.  At any rate, there seems to be enough new material to keep me interested – at least until I get home and have access to my TBR pile.

Now tell me, has this ever happened to you?

Or should the title of this post be, What is Emma Thompson Reading?

I just finished watching the film Last Chance Harvey, which was a rather delightful chick-flick with two of my all time favorite actors.  Emma (or at any rate, her character Kate Walker) is seen reading this book during several different scenes in the movie.  I was able to make out the author’s name (but not the title).  Naturally, being the bookish fiend that I am, I set right onto Google to look it up.

Alas, “Anita Harmon” turned up nothing at all (except a few realtors in the Wisconsin area???)

Do they make fake books for movie props?  And why not have her reading a real book?  Perhaps of the kind she said she’d like to write …”the lovely kind you might read on the beach or an aeroplane.”

Any suggestions?