The Cover Craziness Continues: It's the Ladies' Turn!

I had such a disproportionately awesome time critiquing "gay novel" cover art in a previous post, that I felt compelled to share the snark and see if "lesbian novel" cover art was just as rife with possibility. And boy oh boy, is it ever! A quick Google search turned up page upon page of delectable romances, mysteries, adventures, erotica, and science fiction, all written for ladies who love ladies (and probably a few straight men who get off on the idea).

Narrowing the field down to ten choices was tough; those popular pulp novels from the 1950s, which seemed to be rather obsessed with "womanly lovin'", could've easily taken all ten spots. But I think I've achieved a nice balance of the old and new. Yet regardless of when they were written, one thing is clear:

These books are classics...by the cover art alone.





"Dear Jeebus, thank you for sending Geraldine to me. She is an angel. An angel with ginormous holster hips and the tongue of an anoura fistulata bat. She makes me so happy and doesn't even ask me to remove my jewels for our trysts.

"Thank you, too, for the genius product known as the Ogilvie Home Perm. Without it, I could never look my best for Geraldine (though, personally, I think her blue hair could use a little Miss Clairol).

"Please don't let my husband ever find out about this affair. He would make me give Geraldine up and return to his rancid pickle. And I don't like pickles. I only married him because he promised to keep me in French-whore-pink lipstick and Lee Press-Ons for the rest of my life.

"Also, I'm praying to you so hard right now that I seem to have quashed my breasts and possibly scraped off my left nipple with my bracelet. Please let Geraldine accept me with my new deformities.

"Amen."





Oh, this is a good one. Lots going on here. Here are my observations:

• The chick in the uniform has got to be Hilary Swank. I'm impressed. Two Oscars, big horsey teeth that must take hours to brush, AND she manages to find the time to pose for lesbian romance/sci-fi novel covers! What can't she do?!?
• Given her pasty white skin, limp yellow hair, and soulless gaze, I think the lady in the chair might be dead. No further guardianship necessary.
• And I also think Hilary Swank may have accidentally killed her. In her overzealousness to protect, she seems to have one eye out the window for any potential intruder, all the while unknowingly planting her sword into the shoulder of the one she's trying to keep safe. Oh, Hilary! Someone take away her Oscars STAT.
• If I'm wrong, and I hope I am (for there's nothing sadder than an unrealized lesbian experience), I want to give a little word of warning to the haggard dyke in the chair, who seems a tad innocent and naive: Honey, that sword isn't real. It's store-bought. That's how it's done. Trust me. I learned the hard way.
• If this novel is as good as it looks, I'm voting for a film version, a sort of remake of "The Bodyguard". Ms. Swank and one of the Olsen twins can star. It doesn't matter which Olsen twin. They both look like the walking dead, too.

I don't know about you, but this is how I always come to the airport: half-dressed, no shoes or socks, no shirt, and still pulling my pants up over my thong. What a relief to know I'm not the only one!

And just how the hell did this woman get through the security checkpoint? I mean, those Nazis don't even let you through with a Slurpee, let alone barefooted and boobies to the wind. What's her secret?

Also, check out the great big liver-spotted man-hand clutching the briefcase. Methinks that stewardess is hiding more than just in-flight pretzels under her uniform....





This is my favorite one on the list. What better way to scream "Lesbian Romance" than a shot of the open road, the purply sky at dawn, and a lumbering big rig? You know the ladies behind the wheel of that sucker are no lipstick-wearing, stiletto-loving gals. These are hardcore womyn with flannel shirts, lumberjack boots, a gross of Slim Jims, and Anne Murray blaring from the radio.

I must read this one. My mind is soaring at the thought of the delicious sex scenes that take place in the 2x2 sleeping compartment of that truck. NOTHING says "sexy" like love on 18 wheels.





Apparently, Satan is not only a lesbian, but he is a lesbian with an immaculately-groomed Van Dyck goatee. Satan must be on some hormones.

Speaking of hormones, check out Brunhilda beating the living shit out of that wimpy-ass straight dude. She should just abandon the pathetic whip, though, and pummel him with her Breasts of Terror.

And isn't that a young Bette Davis cowering submissively in the background? Oh Bette, we hardly knew ye!





Oh hell no! If I saw this group of lesbians walking down the street, I'd drop my man-purse and run screaming and flailing in the opposite direction. These are some scary, scary Sister Girls. Even the praying one looks like she could pull out a switchblade at any minute and cut a bitch.

The second Sister Girl from the bottom is the one who frightens me the most. With her arms crossed and eyes narrowed, not to mention a bunch of glittery stars falling all over the damn place, that chick wants all men DEAD. She wants testicle stew for breakfast, wang salad for lunch, and prostate pie for dinner. Ew. That even made me cringe. Prostate pie. Blech!

But I do give these ladies props for their flawless weaves.





Lesbian in the Foreground: "Michelle! Michelle, come back! Come back RIGHT NOW or my baby's mutant arm will crush you!"

Lesbian in the Background: "Screw you, Wendy! I can't stand any more stinky diapers, baby puke, or C-section scars! I'm going to live in the dumpster."

Lesbian in the Foreground: "But I love you, Michelle. We had such fun together: listening to Janis Ian, making our own granola, dressing the baby up like kd lang. Please don't go! If you leave me, I'll stab you with my ice-pick chin!"

Lesbian in the Background: "You don't scare me! I carry a tomahawk in these jeans!"

Lesbian in the Foreground: "Well at least give me my dogs back."

Lesbian in the Background: "Hell no! I'm going to live in the dumpsters, and I'll probably get tired of eating chicken bones and pizza crust every night."

Lesbian in the Foreground: "Nooooooooooooo!"





This is SO not funny. They've obviously stolen the likeness of my beloved Tori Amos for the cover of this book. Someone must pay.

And what the hell did they put on her feet? Are those shoes or some kind of lesbian torture device I know nothing about? No wonder she looks frozen to that spot, contorted in agony -- those shoes have completely eaten her knees!

Yes, someone must pay DEARLY.





Imagine. Helen Hunt a psychotic lesbian killer. Who woulda thought?

I love the dead chick, though. She makes this cover. I think they sketched her about thirty minutes AFTER rigor mortis set in. Poor thing. Oh well, at least Phyllis Diller can have her wig back.

And just look at that pitiful hetero chump relegated to black and white in the background. Sorry, Detective, I know you're mesmerized by Helen's elf shoes, but she is most certainly not interested in anything you've got to offer. Besides, she's already scanning the horizon for her next victim.

Wait a minute. I think she's spotted her target. Is that her "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" co-star Sarah Jessica Parker she's looking at? I think it is! Go for it, Helen! GO FOR IT!





To be honest, I don't have anything to say about this cover; I find it pretty blah. But I had to include it on this list because...well, check out the name of the author.

Yup, folks, it's THAT Lynne Cheney! The wife of Dick Cheney, that compassionate paragon of moral rectitude (har-har-har) known as our vice-president, once wrote a steamy lesbian romance!

Now I know that Dick is something like 400 years old and is more than likely damn-near blind. But if I were him, I'd be on the lookout. If he had any sense, he'd be checking her out every time she came home from "Bible study" for any signs of a pussy mustache.

What am I talking about? We all know he has no sense. So rock on, Lynne. Do what you gotta do, girl. But I fully expect to see you in the next gay pride parade with Dykes on Bikes.

Everything's Coming Up "Nightrose"

Eighteen years ago, when I was first becoming interested in the genre, I read a romance novel that I've never forgotten. It's lived on the periphery of my memory ever since, and as I read more and more historical romances over the ensuing years, I inevitably compared them all to this one early tale that had introduced me to the world of affordable paperback love stories. Typically, I found all other romances to fall short of the spectacular tale spun by Dorothy Garlock in her 1990 novel "Nightrose".

A few weeks ago, I got my hands on a used copy of "Nightrose" and trembled with anticipation at rereading it (as only booksluts like myself can tremble over a book). I was excited to see if the story was as great as I remembered, or if it had somehow changed over the last eighteen years. I knew I had changed, so the idea that the novel had as well, for better or worse, was a very real possibility. And I was right. "Nightrose" had indeed undergone a transformation. It was even BETTER than I remembered.

There could be a few reasons for this, all of which are plausible. Perhaps I've read so many second-rate romances that I now recognize a truly good one for the rarity it is. Perhaps, as someone who has tried his hand at writing one of these things, I've come to respect the monumental challenges presented by writing not only a believable, logical love story (for what is logical about falling in love?), but an historically accurate document of a certain time period. Or perhaps I've just grown up and could relate more realistically to this story of love, compromise, and second chances. Whatever the reason, I now regard "Nightrose" as my favorite romance novel -- and certainly one of the best ever written.

I've always felt a certain affinity with the novel's author, Dorothy Garlock. Like me, she is an Iowan with a fond attachment to the land and the stories associated with it. In fact, I lived and worked for years in the same town Garlock calls home, and though a small community, I can't recall ever having run into her. That may be for the best, as I probably would've groveled at the feet of such a celebrated writer; Garlock, now in her sixties, was one of the pioneers of the American romance novel: the grand dame of the frontier love story.

This title is well-earned, as is evidenced in "Nightrose". Garlock constructs a story that is so much more than your dime-store bodice-ripper. Though much of it revolves around the relationship between strong-willed spitfire Katy and determined charmer Garrick, the book is much grander in scope than it first appears. It is really the story of an entire town, once deserted and left to rot, that comes brilliantly back to life, and the diverse, interesting people that populate it.

"Nightrose" takes place in Montana Territory, 1874. Twenty-one-year-old Katy, her older sister Mary, and Mary's young daughter Theresa have been abandoned; they are the only residents of the desolate ghost town of Trinity. Mary's loser-husband Roy has run off in hopes of striking gold, and though he left with the promise to return one day, wealthy and successful, to his wife and daughter, no one is holding their breath. The three young ladies are forced by necessity to leave behind their ramshackle cabin on the outskirts and take up residence in the most unlikely of places: the town funerary. They are completely alone and living off the land, with just a cow, a derringer, and whatever left-behind foodstuffs they can salvage from the forsaken buildings and homes.

Enter Garrick Rowe. Tall, muscled, Greek, and imposing. He sets up camp across from the funerary in the town jail. The ladies are uncomfortably aware of him, tracking his every move, though unsure of his motives in Trinity. He, too, is keeping tabs on them. What in the hell are two grown women and a little girl still doing in this forgotten place?

So begins the brilliant "Nightrose". Their paths soon cross, sparks fly, all manner of people come and go throughout the town, shots are fired and blood is shed, and all the while Katy and Garrick are drawn closer together. The focus of the novel gradually expands to include the stories of not only Mary and Theresa, but those of the entire growing community descending upon Trinity, as well as the stories of Garrick's friends and acquaintances in the "metropolis" of Virginia City.

Of course, there are villains as well. And not just one lowly scoundrel, but several shady schemers with different malicious agendas. Even using the word "villains" to describe these people is too generous. They fall more into the "Mega-Douchebags Who Deserve to be Castrated" category. I tend to dislike romances where the villains are this thoroughly evil, without even the slightest hint of humanity, but in Garlock's deft hands, these characters serve a greater purpose than just being total pricks. Their collective presence is simply another obstacle that Katy and Garrick, and the town itself, must overcome on the journey to wholeness and contentment. Much like the hardships of living hand-to-mouth off the land, or being submissive to the whims of the weather, or existing under constant threat of attack from God-only-knows-who, these villains are one more hurdle to be overcome. And since all romances rely on a Happily Ever After (the main reason I enjoy them so), this overcoming is triumphant and exhilarating.

One of the aspects of "Nightrose" I found so impressive was the masterful way Garlock is able to walk the line between creating a story that is completely true to the traditional roles and accepted attitudes of the novel's era, all the while remaining respectful of the sensitivities of modern readers. Many romance novelists don't get this; they strive for historical accuracy and end up with offensive stereotypes (blithering, submissive women and violent, aggressive men). But Garlock's characters are different: they are three-dimensional creations with rich inner worlds and capabilities of great thought and understanding. Katy is perhaps the most headstrong heroine I've encountered in a romance novel, often to the point of being stubborn and delusional, and Garrick is so bloody determined to make Katy "his" that he more than once crosses the line into the territory of controlling and obsessive -- but these traits in our hero and heroine are not cemented. Like all of us, Katy and Garrick have the ability to change, and this fact is perhaps Garlock's greatest success as a storyteller. Her characters slowly transform themselves, or let themselves be transformed by "the power of love", however you choose to look at it. They think, they feel, they come to realizations about themselves and one another. Katy examines the nature of her initially strong (and extreme) aversion to Garrick, and she gets to the root of the problem to see just how flawed her reasoning is. Garrick, too, realizes that if he's ever going to woo Katy with the passion he feels in his heart, he's going to have to take a step back, make compromises, and concentrate on her thoughts, needs, and dreams. Whether these transformations are historically likely is not really relevant. What is relevant is that the author is courageous enough to imbue her characters with something truly timeless: GOOD SENSE.

All of this makes for a very believable and entertaining love story, an easy unfolding and revealing of emotions between two very interesting characters. And swarming around this main romance are several others, just as believable, notably Mary's own burgeoning relationship with Garrick's right-hand-man, the burly, furry Irishman Hank Weston.

Yet each of Garlock's characters -- not just the ones in the throes of la passion -- are equally strong, memorable, and unique. The brusque but tender she-hulk Mrs. Chandler, owner of the eatery. The handsome and sensitive mercantile proprietor Elias Glossberg. Nan Neal, a sassy illiterate showgirl who rocks Virginia City. The spunky working gals of The Beehive, Trinity's very own whorehouse. I even liked Mary's daughter, five-year-old Theresa, and I typically find kids in romance novels to be annoying and distracting. But Theresa is precocious and endearing; it's easy to see how she enchants those around her.

Then there are the love scenes, which Garlock handles elegantly and sensually, without ever tipping over into the unseemly or unrefined. There is a lot of kissing in this book. A lot of kissing. Pages of it, in fact; from a peck on the cheek to a full-out French, and all of it is tasteful and classy (it's a special writer who can make a tongue down the throat come across as romantic and soft). And I loved the fact that Garrick was Greek; imagining his fine-ass bod was a pleasure for me, and clearly for Ms. Garlock as well. I also loved that Katy wasn't some heaving-bosomed sex kitten. She had boobs proportionate to her frame (read: SMALL), and while she approached her lovemaking with abandon and great joy, I always got the impression she kept her eye on the bigger picture: she loves this man, and he loves her. Thus, the sex became something more than sex (another fact that many romance novelists completely miss).

Garlock's prose is luminous. She has the power to transport you wherever her words are in any particular moment. As "Nightrose" is so much more than your everyday historical romance, her talent as a storyteller is immense. While she could have focused solely on Katy and Garrick, she chose to make this a much larger love story: the romancing of an entire town. In this sense, I almost want to suggest that "Nightrose" is less of a romance novel and more of a good old fashioned Western. With really hot love scenes.

Finally, the cover. Not only can this book be held up as an example of how great historical romance novels can be, but the cover art is also exemplary (at least it is on the edition I read, the original 1990 publication pictured above). For one thing, the characters actually LOOK like the characters in the book; in fact, they look just as I had imagined them. There's also no submissive embrace or cheap excuse to show skin (though Garrick is shirtless, with his back to us, on the cover); there is instead a pose that appears as if they are running into one another's arms. This is much more believable than some awful cover depicting, say, Katy's nipple shadow and the outline of Garrick's twelve-inch bratwurst as they cavort in the mountains with swans and horses creepily watching. Like the book it envelops, the cover is dignified yet fun.

If you've never read a romance novel, but have fallen under the impression that they are somehow sub-par or tawdry, "Nightrose" is for you; not only will it prove your theory wrong, but you'll have a hell of a lot of fun in the process. If you are a romance reader who's never really come across a decent one, "Nightrose" is also for you; this is a book that could be used as a shining example in "Romance Writing 101". Even if romance novels hold no interest for you, but big epic stories about people and places of a bygone era are more up your alley, then "Nightrose" is an excellent choice here as well; it plays out in the mind with all the sweeping majesty of a classic Western movie.

Grabbing the Book By the Cover: The Craptacular World of Bad Cover Art

There are several websites out there devoted to "critiquing" book cover art in a funny way. My favorite by far is written by the Smart Bitches over at Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books. In their "Cover Snark" series of posts, the ladies raucously dissect the truly awful covers of select romance novels. Their observations are downright hilarious -- and I don't mean in a "haha funny" kind of way. I mean in a tears-running-down-your-cheeks, spit-your-sodee-
pop-across-the-room, poo-a-little-in-your-dungarees kind of way.

Inspired by this, I decided to seek out some "gay novels" and examine their cover art. Incidentally, I throw my nonexistent man-titties to the wind and run like hell from any book that bills itself as a "gay novel"...but some of the covers I stumbled upon were just too rife with possibility to ignore. I could create an entirely separate blog devoted to tearing these big gay book covers new assholes. Which, when you think about it, would come in handy for the heroes.

And who the hell comes up with these things? I mean, really, this has me dumbfounded. Obviously these covers were created by graduates of the Draw the Turtle & Go to Art School Academy.




Standing Guy: "Jeebus Christ, can't a man walk down the street in his granny-panties without encountering a naked weeping homo?"

Crying Guy: "I'm sorry. I've just come from the doctor, and I found out there is a family of illegal immigrants living in my hunchback."

Standing Guy: "Oh man, that sucks. Now will you kindly stop punching my fucking leg?"




I could go on for ages about this one. Let's break it down:

• OK, so dude in the back is kinda hot. But why is he messing with a red-headed firecrotch who appears to have razor-sharp nipples?
• I'll tell you why. Look at Big Red's MASSIVE JUNK. That is not normal. Either he's had a testicular saline injection, or there's some kind of rodent in those jodhpurs. Presumably, a guinea pig.
• For a book called "Discreet Young Gentlemen", they sure as hell aren't very discreet. In addition to porking in open view of Dracula's castle, there is also some shady voyeur making no attempt to be sneaky by watching from his carriage.
• Speaking of the carriage, why does the horse have five legs?
• Where'd they get that lamp? Crate and Barrel? Pier One? Me likes.

Well...it's good to see Erik Estrada can still get some honest work.

And isn't that the same hairdo worn by Marla Gibbs in the last seasons of "227"?




"Clem, you has one hot ass. However, there seems to be an oddly-shaped tumor protruding from your left hip. Let's git you to Doc Mead before we play Hide the Musket."

Also, notice the strange threesome silhouette in the corner. Actually, that might not be a threesome, since the two forms on the left seem to have two heads sharing the same body. I don't know about you, but I hate it when people spontaneously grow out of my back.

And I can only guess the form on the right of these two is an Old West transsexual with leaking, poorly-sculpted implants. Have we learned nothing from Tara Reid?




Oh shit, this one DEFINITELY has had a testicular saline injection. You know how I can tell? Because it's bleeding! Check out the trail of blood down the middle of that shiny thing he's wearing. Someone clearly couldn't stop himself and now his ballsack has ruptured. Way to go, Cylon!

Since this guy clearly has no brains, I think it's a nice touch that he's decided to have his phone number tattooed across his chest. He also seems to be microchipped in the neck. Good boy. This way you won't stray too far from home and disturb the intelligent people.

Speaking of intelligent, how cool is it that the R2-D2 knock-off in the background has a Dustbuster for a hand??? I love it! Does he do housecalls?




Photographic Evidence #6,032,855,712 in the ongoing case of Why Mullets Are Not Sexy. The blond one is also in desperate need of a creme rinse. Let's just hope the ransom involves Vidal Sassoon is some way.

You know, blondie's hair looks a lot like Barbra Streisand's on the cover of her "Wet" album.

WAIT! Hold it just a goshdarned minute! This confirms my suspicions that Barbra is really a gay man. Babs, is that you? Barbra can you hear me?




WTF?

Honestly, WTF is this? The longer I stare at it, the more options I can see.

Ohhh, I get it. It's one of those Magic Eye pictures.




Is that Jude Law in the white banana hammock? If so, I need to run out and buy this book STAT.

And who's the pathetic fag hag kneeling in the ruins like she's about to blow one of these guys? Honey, you're barking up the wrong column. I dig your Marlo Thomas/"That Girl" hair, though.




Don't you wish we could all do this? Fly through the air by emitting copious amounts of jizz from our hands and feet? It must also be handy to be able to store books in your hair. Some guys have all the luck.




Finally! A horsehung hero NOT into body modification. Hot standing dude is sure proud of that anaconda he's managed to squeeze into his riding pants, but then again, who wouldn't be? And just look at the pure awe in the eyes of the little twinkie catcher kneeling before him. He reminds me of one of the urchins in "Oliver": "Please, Sir, may I have some more?".

These two lovebirds better be careful, though. Clearly, that vase is going to come smashing down on Twinkie's head any moment now. The table holding the roses is on its last legs, evidenced by the dangerous angle to which it is leaning. Also, I would imagine it would be really uncomfortable to have rollicking romance-novel-sex with an oval portrait of Barbara Bush staring down at you. But maybe that's just me.

Something to Say: Writing for Art, for Therapy, for Self...and for the World

"We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing, which is one reason why they write so little." -Anne Lamott


I've come to realize recently, as I write more and more and integrate the practice into my daily routine, that writing is not a path for everyone. In addition to the isolation that is necessary for the creation of art, writing is a therapeutic process. Much like meditation, or psychoanalysis, writing is primarily a system of sitting with one's thoughts -- the good, the bad, and the ugly -- and translating them into something workable. Even if what you're writing is the furthest thing from yourself or your own experiences, it is your thoughts, and only your thoughts, that construct, color, and influence your writing.

This can be a frightening, intimidating fact for most people, in much the same way that meditation and therapy can be. Who wants to sit quietly with their thoughts? Who wants to dredge up their soul and every ounce of their history just to write a decent sentence? Who wants to try to make sense of our truly fucked-up world?

Hmm. I do.

In Buddhism, there is a meditation practice called Metta, or loving-kindness. In this technique, you wish happiness, health, safety, and freedom to first yourself, then a mentor, a loved one, a "neutral person" (someone you neither love nor hate, like the 7-11 cashier or the big African lady who sells chunky tacky jewelry at the T station), an enemy, and, finally, all beings everywhere. It's a very uplifting style of meditation, and when you're finished with a Metta sitting, you often feel quite good. As if you've just done something to help the entire world.

Though you're writing may not help the entire world, the process of writing can be much the same. As writers, we are trying -- through our tireless inspection of ourselves -- to understand this Earth we all share. Instead of sending our loving intention through our writing (which, of course, is possible), we are sending our thoughts to ourselves, certain people in particular and the world as a whole, in a grand attempt to make sense of it all. It is our passion for understanding that drives us, and attaining any kind of true knowledge or understanding is always beneficial to not just the student, but the universe entire. Our writing is our love letter (or, in some cases, our hate mail) to the world.

This action of trying to figure out who we are and what it all means is an unspoken rule, or standard, in the writing process. There are all sorts of rules out there when it comes to the process of putting words to paper, but, as in all areas of life, certain rules work for certain people. Even those who buck traditional guidelines are still adhering to some set of rules, even if they are of their own fashioning.

Many great writers have shared their rules with us. Hemingway found it imperative -- so imperative that he made them his first two rules for writers -- to use short words and short sentences. George Orwell agreed with this less-is-more theory in his own set of rules, the last of which particularly like: "Break any of these rules sooner than saying anything outright barbarous." One of my favorite writers, Erica Jong, has a list of twenty rules for writers, all of which are practical, powerful, and can be applied to other areas of life as well. But Jong's "hidden" twenty-first rule is my favorite: "There are no rules."

What Jong is saying is exactly my point. There's no definitive set of rigid instructions a writer must follow. Just as we create our own art, we create our own rules for the creation of that art. The one common denominator, though, throughout the process of said creation is the either conscious or unconscious desire to understand ourselves. I'm a firm believer that we all just want to be heard, or, in the case of the writer, read. Not for sales, or money, or fame. But for understanding, empathy, and communion.

Just as the great majority of writing rules are not universal, neither are the ways in which writers approach their work, even on the most basic levels. For instance, I once read that Jong writes all of her novels in longhand on a yellow legal pad. As much as I adore her, this would never, ever work for me. I have never been able to seriously write with pen and paper; even from the first poems I wrote in my teens, I pecked them out on a Smith Corona word processor the size of a Ford Festiva. I need the feel and the sound of a keyboard beneath my fingertips: this sensory experience excites and inspires me. Indeed, in between rapidly-flying thoughts, in moments of downtime, my fingers are usually still resting on the keys, stroking them in a nearly sensual way. But the biggest reason I require a computer to write is that it's the only way my hands can keep up with my thoughts. I have true monkey mind, hence the name and totally random content of my blog), and my thoughts and ideas are constantly swinging from limb to limb and connecting to other ideas and thoughts. I am typically focused enough to keep all of them on whatever it is I'm writing, but I still need to get them out onto the page. Editing can come later. And I type about 100 words per minute, so my fingers do a pretty good job of keep step with the "idea monkeys" careening through my head.

Additionally, though I'm all for editing -- that fundamental process of weeding your word-garden -- as a step in the method, I'm not a writer who does tons and tons of drafts. I constantly second-guess myself, so poring over a manuscript dozens of times does nothing but make me more and more unsure about what I've created. A psychic once told me that I must always follow my first instinct in life. To this end, my first instinct usually emerges in the first draft. Not always, but usually. Going back and changing my intention invariably damages the integrity of my writing. Proofreading, editing, doing a little more research on certain topics...all of these I can handle. Redrafting my work to the point where even I don't recognize it is not a wise path for me to follow. I'd rather be rejected for telling my truth in the first draft than be loved for feeding cowpies to the reader in the 70th.

One big thing I've noted about my writing is the tendency I have toward the autobiographical, even if what I'm writing is as far away from autobiography as one can get. When I was immersed in writing my romance novel, I noticed that aspects of both myself and others in my life were popping up in my characters. Being that a heterosexual historical romance novel is light years away from any experience I've had in my own life, this integration of real people into its story was entirely unconscious. For example, I based one of my characters on my friend Molly: her personality, physicality, and sense of humor; I even named her Molly. It wasn't until later that I fully realized this.

Employing this technique, however unconscious, can be risky. It's a sort of opening-up of our real lives and showing it to the world. The chances of getting hurt, or hurting others, are significant. To give another Erica Jong scenario, when she published "Fear of Flying", many felt the book was a thinly-veiled autobiography. Jong has neither confirmed nor denied this, though there are indeed many similarities to her own life. This opening-up caused great rifts in her family, and though the book was published 35 years ago, one of her sisters, Suzanna Daou, publicly confronted her during a lecture just a few months ago. She resented what she felt was Jong's unnecessary "exposé" of Daou's life all those years ago. "'Fear of Flying' has been a thorn in my flesh for thirty-five years," Daou commented. So you see, inserting people from your own life, or even aspects of those people, could very possibly cause some great pain. And not pain that goes away quickly. Thirty-five years is a long time to carry resentment, especially when it's targeted toward someone as vital as a sibling. But just as Daou's truth is her own, so too is Jong's. I guess the bottom line is this: write your truth, always and forever, but it's not worth risking a valued relationship. If it's someone you hate, it's a different story. Go ahead and make that mean-ass meter maid a serial killer in your novel. Unless, of course, she's your sister.

This is an observation I have to keep a close eye on in my writing. As much as I love to write, I also love the people in my life. My writing may end up in the bargain bin of Half Price Books. My loved ones, more than likely, will not.

But all of this brings me back to the theory that self-knowledge is the silent undercurrent to all writing. Examining what rules work for us, how we approach our craft, what tools we use and don't use, and the inherent risks in baring our souls, are all pathways forged in purpose of a higher goal: to make sense of our lives and, by extension, the world. In our struggle for understanding, we all have something to say that is important, powerful, and of immeasurable value to at least one reader out there. Even if that one reader is the one who wrote it.

As F. Scott Fitzgerald said, "The reason one writes isn't the fact he wants to say something. He writes because he has something to say."

Her Turbulent Brilliance: The Artistic Fire of Debra Winger

Once upon a time, in a mythical land called Hollywood, during an era of polyester leisure suits, wide lapels, and halter tops, there was a young actress who exploded onto the silver screen with a fierce intelligence and fiery integrity. Her fresh, apple-cheeked beauty and uncompromising standards led her to star in some of the biggest films of that period, many of which are now considered classics. She worked with such passion, drive, and natural talent that, despite her young age, she completely bypassed the label of "starlet" and instead shot to the stratospheric brand of "serious actress". By 29, she was a major box office draw, a respected thespian, and had been nominated for two Leading Actress Academy Awards.

Throughout this startling ascent, stories, rumors, and gossip slowly began to show cracks in the plastic foundation of the fairy tale. She was blunt, outspoken, oftentimes tactless. She was called "difficult", openly and unapologetically clashing with some of the biggest names in the business (including Robert Redford, Richard Gere, Shirley MacLaine, Steve Martin, and director Taylor Hackford). She was also regarded as something of a party girl: drinking, drugging, and having several high-profile relationships and affairs (including one with then-governor of Nebraska Bob Kerrey). A 1983 "Life" magazine profile was bylined, "Why the star of 'An Officer and a Gentleman' is such an outrageous free spirit". Perhaps she was TOO free for the tastes of many.

The foundation started its hasty erosion when she began to become more famous for the roles she didn't play than the ones she did. She turned down (or quit) half a dozen films throughout the latter part of the 80s and into the early 90s; these films eventually became wildly successful blockbusters. The film work she did choose to do was often met with disinterest, perhaps because of her reputation, or perhaps because Hollywood has a short memory: a star's descent can be just as stealthy and absolute as its initial sparkling trajectory. Whatever the reason, her talent was still unshakable, ever-present, and impossible to ignore. In 1993, she received a third Oscar nomination for Best Actress.

After a few more forgettable films, the actress -- now, in Hollywood terms, a woman "of a certain age" -- did something no one saw coming.

She disappeared.

It was such a thorough and complete vanishing act that a documentary film was made in 2002, in which the filmmaker (actress Rosanna Arquette), went in search of her.

Her sudden absence from show business was baffling to many; after all, you don't just turn your back on stardom, no matter its position in the cosmos. How could this actress, so celebrated, admired, and, yes, even despised, just go away of her own accord? How could she give it all up to disappear into "civilian life" -- and a life in the country no less? How could she throw in the towel for the trowel? How could she sacrifice the plastic fairy tale foundation for the indestructible, embracing foundation of earth and stone? Who does she think she is? Did we ever know her? Who is she?

Her name is Debra Winger.

And, as it turns out, we didn't ever really know her. The 53-year-old mother, humanitarian, and actress has just released her memoirs, entitled "Undiscovered". But this is not your typical celebrity autobiography. There's no juicy gossip here and very little name-dropping. There is no conventional chronology of a life and career, no routine storytelling detailing the rise and fall of a celebrated performer. What there is is a collection of reflections: random thoughts, brilliant flashes of insight, recorded dreams, recalled memories, and poetry. Winger gives us less of the facade and more of the brave, complex motivations behind it. In doing this, she has created an entirely new form of memoir, one that is at once raw, witty, intelligent, and altogether inspiring. The result is a powerful and unique glimpse into the mind of a true artist.

"Undiscovered" resonated with me for so many reasons. Too many, in fact, for me to go into them all here. It's safe to say that much of the book sliced through many of my misconceptions and emotional boundaries and pierced me -- challenged me -- in the most personal of places: my own authenticity. "Authenticity is not a goal for the faint-hearted," Winger writes. "I have started on this journey, and I want to continue with grace." Unlikely as it may seem, "Undiscovered" is a lesson in grace...and, also unlikely as it might be, Debra Winger has become one of my teachers.

I've stated before how compelling, and sometimes uncomfortable, it is that certain books find us at the exact point in our lives when we need to hear what they have to say. On the heels of "Veronika Decides to Die", a book that met this criteria with aplomb, the gentle, knowing beauty of "Undiscovered" has slipped into my hands. It, too, has found me when I most needed its insights. It has found me when I needed to be found.

Some of you may know that in my late teens and early twenties, I attempted a foray into show business. I lived in L.A., auditioned for agents, managers, directors, and casting directors, and even found the odd job now and then. It didn't take me long, though, to realize that my passion for acting had a cut clean through the middle: my passionate love of the craft (which, even to this day, has not waned) was only rivaled by my passionate hatred for "the business". I took a great big heaving sigh of relief when Winger admits that, from the very beginning of her career all the way up to the present, "I love the work and don't much care for the business."

Winger's show biz experience, of course, was worlds different than my own. I obviously never came close to achieving the fame she did (oh, how I would LOVE to be nominated for Best Actress!). But the emotional undercurrent is the same. Look at it like this: show business is first and foremost a business, which means the top priority is making money, which means any initial contact or opportunities that may be presented are based on one thing and one thing only: looks. It is, at least in the beginning, not a matter of talent, not even in the smallest way. The powers-that-be are more interested in your physical appeal than any skill, integrity, or passion you might have. Pretty people = pretty money. I was once at a call-back audition where the director, who had praised and fawned over me the previous day, told me to go home because "he had problems with my looks". Gee, I'm sorry my nose is here and my eyes are there and my jeans don't hug my ass just so. Did you happen to notice that I can act?

Then, if one is lucky enough to actually land a job, there are more physical demands to be met. You are required to fashion yourself in certain ways. For example, if you're playing a sexy role, then you'd better ooze sex 24/7 for the sake of the film. Objectification is huge. Who's going to go see a movie about a sexy superhero when the actor who plays him just wants to live in the mountains and be a hippie when he's not at work? You've been assigned a persona -- not just a character -- and you need to play it to the hilt. Sometimes, actors don't even have to try at this. They are naturally attractive and then, given the nature of the role, they are objectified into icons of sex. This was the case with Winger after "Urban Cowboy" was released. She was just an actress playing a role, but the world saw her as some sort of revolutionary new sex symbol. I'm sure the mechanical bull scene didn't hurt that outcome. But all Winger felt was, I'm an actor. I just want to do my job. I just want to tell the truth.

But there's not a lot of room for truth in Hollywood.

Add to this movie-mix all matter of legalities to tend to, executives to bow to, and egos to assuage. Winger, like me, is not a traditional method actor, though certain intensive approaches are in place. We are both more interested in diving head-first into a character until that character infiltrates every pore, every crevice both external and internal. We want to go the edge of that character's reality and totally lose ourselves in the process. This is good acting, this is truth. And as you try to best portray your character, you have others around you constantly telling you that your authenticity, your TRUTH, are wrong. To survive in this world, you need to either bow out, or develop a thick protective skin. I chose the former. Winger chose the latter.

And, as time went on, this protection translated itself into a reputation of being difficult. What in her own mind were precautionary measures taken to allow her to simply focus on the work, were, to others, aggression and hostility. And Winger does not disagree with this perception of her during that time. In "Undiscovered", she looks back and "cringes" when she thinks of how she treated people. By her own admission, she was raunchy and often rude. This was the version of herself she felt she had to put out there. To stay safe. To stay separated from the politics of the business. To stay wholly devoted to the one thing she loved above all others: acting. Though the results on the screen speak for the remarkable success of this second skin, the relationships she had with co-workers speak something much different.

I've heard it said (and I can neither vouch for nor advocate the efficacy of this statement, as Winger discusses it nowhere in her book) that during those early successes she was a cocaine addict, and during "Terms of Endearment" she was in the process of getting clean. This, coupled with her finely-honed defense mechanism, could be the reason for the friction between herself and co-star Shirley MacLaine. Their disagreements and battles while making the film have become part of Hollywood legend. But whatever happened between the two actresses (I, for the record, am a huge fan of MacLaine), it was transformed into magic once put on film. "Terms of Endearment" is a modern masterpiece, and both women are phenomenal in it. The two were pitted against one another at the Oscars that year, both nominated for Best Actress. MacLaine won, but on the way to the podium to accept the statuette, she stopped to embrace Winger and whispered, "Half of this belongs to you." Winger replied, without missing a beat, "And I'll take half of it." In her acceptance speech, MacLaine acknowledged Winger's "turbulent brilliance" and the expert thoroughness with which she executed the role. Click here to see the speech (and hey, Rock Hudson and Liza Minelli presenting: it doesn't get much gayer than that!).

Over the next twelve years, Winger made a variety of films, none of which were terribly successful. The exception was 1993's "Shadowlands", where she did some terrific work as American poet Joy Gresham; she was again Oscar-nominated. During this time, she devoted her energies to being a mother (Winger has two sons, one with Timothy Hutton, born in 1987, and another with current husband Arliss Howard, born in 1997). But after "Shadowlands", there were a few more movies, and then...the disappearance.

This retreat from all things Hollywood is what makes up the bulk of "Undiscovered". For the first time in her life, Winger has an opportunity to embrace the quiet, and she does it like she does everything else: with passion and artistic fire. Moving to the remote countryside in upstate New York, she begins a fearless introspection and reflects on her life and career, dissecting her own behavior and choices, examining the natural world with the wonder of a poet, and embracing a life of simplicity. Motherhood, gardening, writing. That's all she needs. This idea of simplicity, living with just the essentials in the wilds of the country, appeals greatly to me. I heard with inspiring identification and breathtaking clarity every single word she wrote. Through Winger's self-awareness, I am beginning to touch upon my own.

Like "Veronika Decides to Die", "Undiscovered" has done something quite huge, and a little scary, for me. It's forced me to ask questions, to look inward and inquire further, to examine my own choices, barriers, strengths, weaknesses, and direction. "The possibility exists," Winger writes, "for all of us, at any age, to imbue our days with a breath fully taken, the thought fully formed, and the emotion wholeheartedly felt. How often do we? We are full of undisclosed fear, unexpressed resentment, and a feeling that there will be a time in the future when we will get to it."

Thank you for helping me get to it, Ms. Winger. Through examples like yours, I hope to do it with grace.

They're Coming to Take Me Away!: A Review of "Veronika Decides to Die" by Paulo Coelho

As my friend Patricia says, "Don't get your knickers in a bunch."

This is not a review or recommendation like the great majority of others I've written on this blog: for once, I am not critiquing a "depressing" book (the type -- don't think I haven't noticed -- that has become my choice reading material for the last several months). In fact, the only thing truly depressing about Paulo Coelho's 1998 novel "Veronika Decides to Die" is the title itself. The story it encompasses is actually one of the most -- if not the most -- positive, inspiring, insightful, and life-affirming books I've ever read. So, please, before you're put off by the novel's rather bleak title, hear me out. This book just might change your life.

On a skeletal level, the tale revolves around Veronika, a 24-year-old Slovenian woman, who decides to commit suicide. She is not particularly sad, or clinically depressed, or crazy; on the other hand, she is also not particularly happy, or content, or fulfilled. She's just...well, she's just pretty meh about her life. Everything that comprises her existence has left her feeling empty and inauthentic: her job as a librarian, her popularity with men, her circle of friends and family. She views it all with such an intense disinterest that she can only regard her present life as the result of a series of disastrous choices she's made in the past, and her future life as a plodding, painful, monotonous marching-on of the routines she has established: a long, slow, and not-very-graceful waltz to the grave. When debating the option between spending the rest of her considerable number of days waking in the morning, sitting in a windowless cube for eight hours, going home, having dinner, watching TV, and going to bed -- before doing it all over again and again, ad infinitum -- and the prospect of ending her own life, Veronika chooses death. Making this decision is her way of taking back control, of being heard, and it thus gives her a terrific sense of empowerment -- much to her own surprise: it's been ages since she's felt anything at all.

And so our eponymous heroine one evening takes handfuls of sleeping pills and prepares herself for death, with an excitement bordering on giddiness. This is the end of the entire awful routine, and she herself has chosen it. She closes her eyes and waits for the blessed finish.

When she opens her eyes, she briefly thinks she's entered an afterlife of some sort (an afterlife, incidentally, that she never really believed in). Until she sees the horrible fluorescent light bulb over her head: there is NO way heaven would have fluorescent lighting. That's when she learns the acrid truth of her situation. She has not died, she has just emerged from a coma, and she is "safe" within the walls of Villete, Slovenia's privately-funded, less-than-ethical mental hospital. The doctor then tells her that although she failed at ending her own life in one fell swoop, she has irreparably damaged her heart from the overdose, and there's no chance of recovery. She will be dead within days.

And this is where Veronika's journey begins. So, too, does ours.

Now. I say this is the plot on a "skeletal level" because "Veronika Decides to Die" is so much more than a linear, entertaining story. It is a great, majestic book of ideas: ideas that, if we allow them into our hearts, can not only be a terrific reading experience, but a transformative life experience as well.

As Veronika goes about life in the institution, she inadvertently affects the lives of several of the patients and staff members. In turn, we learn their stories as well, and how this peculiar young woman on the threshold of death has inexplicably inspired them to reevaluate their own lives. It's not the typical warm, fuzzy, feel-good Hollywoodized standard of Dying Lady Touches the Lives of All She Encounters. Not by any means. What Veronika inspires is beyond sentimental, even beyond the reminder that we all have the power to change our own lives. What she inspires is revolution.

Hers is a path of ever-increasing awareness, both of her self and the world. This, of course, leads to some big questions. How is one supposed to be an individual in a world full of people who are all doing the exact same thing day in and day out? Where, and how, does the life and mind of a nontraditional thinker, like an artist, musician, writer, or any other creative, fit into this societal mold of required conformity? Why is it that on one hand we receive continuous messages that we are unique and must embrace our individuality, and on the other that the only path to contentment and fulfillment is a 9-5 job, marriage, and a house in the suburbs? What does it mean to be "crazy"? Is it primarily a state of total biochemical mind-fuck, or is it more the condition of a bunch of people who just want to think for and be true to themselves, regardless of society's expectations and demands? And on the flip side of the coin, what exactly does it mean to be "sane"? Does it insinuate some better, more realistic and healthier hold on life, or is it just a term created for the accepted actions of the status quo? Who in this life is truly crazy? The ones locked in mental institutions the world over? Or the cube-dwellers and clockwatchers, the tract-housing owners and parents of 2.5 children, the SUV drivers and flocks of sheep masquerading as people? This is just a sampling of the inquiries put forth on Veronika's journey, and the riddles, complexities, and philosophies inherent in questions like these are what make her story so unique and powerful.

It's relatively safe to say, I think, without the men in white coming to take me away, that I identified on many levels with Veronika. Yet I also identified with the myriad other characters, or, at the very least, saw in them people from my own life. Though this book is sometimes unsettling in its provocativeness, it is this aspect of identification that makes it so comforting. Just maybe we aren't alone in all of this great nutty chaos called life. Despite the individuality that society simultaneously scorns and supports, we still share a lot of common threads. Perhaps, I thought with hope while reading "Veronika Decides to Die", perhaps I'm not the only one asking questions.

And if we all start to ask questions, the revolution is not far off.

This is the first book I've read by Paulo Coelho. I've come to learn that Coelho's books fall into the categories of either "really loved" or "really hated". Critics seem to really hate them, citing them as no more than touchy-feely, New Age prose from a not-very-skilled novelist. Audiences, however, love them. His trademark work, "The Alchemist", has sold more than 65 million copies and has been translated into 56 languages; in all, his entire canon of work has sold more than 100 million copies in 150 countries in 66 languages. I have already ordered my copy of "The Alchemist" and look forward to reading it; I can't imagine, however, that it could come close to doing for me what "Veronika" has done.

It's interesting, and somewhat eerie, that certain books come into our lives precisely when we need to read them. I've had "Veronika Decides to Die" sitting on my shelf for about eight years. I bought it, thought it looked good, and promptly ignored it. But for some reason, last week I walked straight to the bookshelf and pulled out this book, as if driven by some unseen force. When I started to read it (and, unlike most critics, I found it extremely well-written: crisp, poetic, and deceptively simple), I could not stop. I wanted to eat it whole, devour it in one sitting, but something told me to savor it: that a story like this doesn't come along very often. So I heeded this voice (Was it instinct? Was it my cat? Was it God? Was it Meryl Streep?), and savored the novel in small portions, really taking the time to process and digest the ideas it put forth and finding how they fit into my own life.

This is a time when I really needed this book, and I can't explain how it found me after all these years. I've been through some intense personal obstacles lately (which I'm trying to find a way to blog about in a healthy, constructive way), and I needed to hear Veronika's tale. I needed to be reminded that it's OK -- I mean, really OK -- to say Fuck you and follow your heart. I needed to know that I don't have to sit in a cubicle and answer phones all day, or start a family, or happily agree with everyone I meet and suppress my own opinions and desires, to be a valid and vital member of society. I needed to be told that even though I have made some unconventional choices in my life -- some good, some bad -- and often opted for the alternate route, I am no less, and no more, a human being than anyone else.

And I needed to know that despite it all, I am not alone.

Augusten and the Wolf: A Review of "A Wolf at the Table" by Augusten Burroughs

Wherever Augusten Burroughs wants to take me, I am willing to go.

I am a die-hard fan of the 42-year-old writer, best known for his raucous, endearing memoir "Running With Scissors". "Scissors" examined, with great sensitivity and acerbic wit, his adolescence spent in the bizarre home of his mother's psychiatrist, where she pretty much abandoned him as a teenager. The book was terrifically successful, inspired a feature film of the same name, and put Burroughs on the literary map. And though I certainly enjoyed "Scissors", it was his next book, 2003's "Dry", that really knocked me on my keister. Employing his usual humor and depth of feeling, "Dry" is a recounting of Burroughs's chemical dependence and recovery and is one of the few books I've ever read that almost identically mirrors my personal experiences (we even went to the same rehab!). "Dry" could have easily been my own autobiography.

It is for these reasons that I trust Augusten Burroughs implicitly. If I had a literary kindred spirit, he'd probably be it. The places he needs to go, I've discovered, are also the places I need to go. Though the great majority of our life experiences couldn't be more different, Burroughs's brave examination of the few we do share is enough to give me the courage to look at my own life. It is a process. It is often slow. And it's comforting to know that when we undertake such a process, we may be lucky enough to have a fearless writer who has tread the path before us. The great poet Theodore Roethke wrote, "This shaking keeps me steady. I should know./What falls away is always. And is near./I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow./I learn by going where I have to go."

Yet even after all of this, I was not prepared for where Augusten Burroughs took me in his latest book, "A Wolf at the Table: A Memoir of My Father". Forgoing his trademark quirky humor and uncanny knack for making the downright weird completely entertaining, Burroughs undertakes a harrowing, heartbreaking dissection of his inaccessible father and the impact such a figure had on a young, impressionable boy.

Now, anyone who knows me realizes that I have a bit of a flirtation with the dark side. I enjoy a lot of books, movies, and music that some might label "depressing". I'm not afraid of human emotion, or, more specifically, bleak human emotion. But I have to admit that "A Wolf at the Table" is probably the saddest book I've ever read. My chest constricted, my stomach in knots, a lump lodged in my throat, my heart simply cracked more and more with each turn of the page.

But none of this -- not one word -- is written for shock value or sensationalist entertainment. While Burroughs is courageously retelling the story of his childhood, he is simultaneously (and equally courageously) piecing together what it all means. What it did both for and to him. How it shaped, defined, and destroyed various aspects of his being. You'll find no psychobabble or Freudian theory here. What you will find is a very human story. And what may at first seem devastating and crushing ultimately ends up surprisingly inspiring: the truth, which we all know is oftentimes a painful path to forge, really can set us free. This book is an important one, even for those of us who had good dads (and I have a great one), if for no other reason than to make us appreciate what we were lucky enough to have. Some weren't so fortunate.

"A Wolf at the Table" takes place in the pre-"Running With Scissors" years, when Augusten was a young boy living with his parents and peculiarly-absent older brother. His father, a bitter, violent alcoholic who often spilled over into the realm of the sociopathic, was a dark presence of immeasurable terror to the whole family. Yet he was consistently moreso to Augusten, who he really never had time for. From the boy dressing up like the family dog (whom his father always had time for) in order to get his dad's attention, to trying to decipher exactly what his dad is doing hovering over his bed in the dark, to attempting to find a father figure amongst a group of construction workers who come to work on their house, it's amazing that the young Burroughs even survived such a sad and terrorized upbringing. And it gets far worse before it gets better. After his father kills his beloved guinea pig (the scene where Augusten discovers this is one I will never, ever forget), the boy effectively turns on his dad, and so begins an explosive, enraged, emotional tug-of-war between the two. Tragically, even on his father's deathbed, it still rages.

While "A Wolf at the Table" is a departure from the typical Burroughs wit, it is also a mature, terrifying, and totally haunting story. If you're expecting "Running With Scissors II", you've come to the wrong place. But if you're interested in going where you need to go, then there is no better guide than Augusten Burroughs.

There Is a Way to Be Good Again: Examining the Book & Film Versions of "The Kite Runner"

Whenever a book (or movie, or TV show, or play, or musical act) manages to capture the hearts and minds of the popular consciousness, I tend to run screaming in the opposite direction. This is more than likely because I don't really like people all that much (don't worry: you're fine; it's the others I don't care for); therefore, I do not trust their opinions. I mean, come on. Great taste-challenged hoards of people buy Britney Spears CDs, drool over "American Idol", and flock to see Adam Sandler movies. In this perspective, I hope it's easier to see why I refuse to participate in anything the general public makes "popular".

However, there was one book for which I broke my anti-mainstream rule: "The Kite Runner", Khaled Hosseini's wildly successful 2003 novel about two boys growing up in war-torn Afghanistan, and the brutal act of violence that divides them forever. I was drawn to the book for a couple of reasons. One, and I know this is sorta lame, was the cover. The beautifully dark and earthy illustration piqued my curiosity about the story contained between the covers. Another reason I was intrigued was the fact that several people (fellow book-lovers), for whom I have a great deal of respect, recommended the book to me as a great story with exceptional writing. The final, and probably most profound, influence to read it was the subject matter. The entire region of the Middle East has always been a political hotbed of controversy and strife, now more so than ever. I was impressed, and more than a little surprised, that so many people took to this book, since we all know that the American public is easily misled (see: George W. Bush's "war on terror"). I was shocked that the book-buying masses were able to set aside the political propaganda and make a story about the Middle East so massively successful. These reasons, I figured, were strong enough for me to pick up "The Kite Runner".

And I'm so glad I did. I absolutely loved the book. It affected me in ways I never could have imagined, even going so far as to tap into my own buried memories of pain and violence. At one point in the book, I even became physically sick; it's also one of the few books I've read in which I wept openly. That's how much I identified with these characters. They were so completely real, so totally compelling, that I saw the story of these two Afghan boys through the lens of my own experience. It is a great book that can do this.

"The Kite Runner" is the story of Amir and Hassan, childhood friends and constant companions (Hassan is the son of Amir's household servant/right-hand man). After a devastating act of terror, Amir, so guilty that he did not help his friend in his time of distress, turns his back on Hassan. This sets in motion a chain of tragic events that carries the boys through to adulthood, amidst the ever-growing, ever-terrifying societal unrest of Afghanistan. The story is heartbreaking, but in the end there is such a sense of redemption, of forgiveness, that it's nearly impossible not to view this dark tale with anything less than an unshakable sense of hope. Amir's journey to authenticity is one to which many of us can relate, and, sadly, so too is Hassan's brutalization.

Given the acclaim of the book, I wasn't surprised when I heard it was being adapted into a motion picture. Being an eternal fatalist -- and also realizing what Hollywood has done to oh-so-many great novels -- I was skeptical. How, I wondered, could even the greatest filmmaker successfully translate the themes of this psychologically intense and layered book to the panorama of the big screen? And, of course, I immediately imagined them casting the entire thing with white actors running around the desert speaking American English. Yup, I was sure the Hollywoodization of this incredible story would be an utter fiasco.

I was wrong. The film version of "The Kite Runner" is not only (for the most part) fully dedicated to the story of the novel, but it's cast with Middle Eastern actors actually speaking Persian! Director Marc Forester and screenwriter David Benioff breathe eloquent life into Hosseini's emotionally-complex tale. There are no "big name" Hollywood actors, the majority of the film is in subtitles, and the story is often tremendously disturbing. But these are precisely why the film works so well and is on par with the quality of the book on which it is based.

For me, the most impressive aspect of the movie version was the performance of the adorable Ahmad Khan Mahmoodzada as young Hassan. In his film debut, this kid is nothing short of masterful. He can convey more with his eyes and cherubic face than most actors can with their entire bodies. He is a revelation. His work here is nuanced, intelligent, and absolutely heartbreaking.

There are many morals to the story of Amir and Hassan, but none so powerful as the line spoken to Amir by Hassan's father: "There is a way to be good again." "The Kite Runner" shows us that even in our bleakest hours there are opportunities for salvation, and that it's never too late to right the wrongs of the past.

Book Review: "Nightwood" by Djuna Barnes

There are many books I love. I could easily compile a list of a hundred or more books that, for whatever reason, I adore. Some spoke to my own experience, dispelling my loneliness or despair; others were vibrantly written and entertainingly executed; and still others were just plain fun. Most are a combination of one or more of these elements.

But there are few books out there that are intense and powerful enough to shake me to my very core. These books are rare, and when I am lucky enough to come across one, my soul feels like it's been gripped by two great massive hands, shaken with ferocity, and placed back in upside-down. Just as when I see an exceptional movie, or an extraordinary painting, these books challenge and inspire me to leap from my seat and view the world through newer, clearer eyes. These books are hard to find in our short-attention-span, superficial world of John Grishams and Danielle Steeles. But they're out there. For me, they are books like "The Golden Notebook" (Doris Lessing), "Diary of a Young Girl" (Anne Frank), "Becoming A Man" (Paul Monette), and "The Hours" (Michael Cunningham). These books engage and enrage, entertain and empathize: they unlock vital aspects of myself, and the world, to which I had not previously been aware. In short, these books are life-changing.

To the above-mentioned list, I now add "Nightwood" by Djuna Barnes.

I had never heard of Barnes until several months ago, when I read a biography of art patron Peggy Guggenheim. Barnes was a supporting, though pivotal, player in Guggenheim's history. Peggy financially supported Djuna for most of her life, and one can only assume Guggenheim's affection was reciprocated: "Nightwood" is dedicated to her. The two women traveled in creative, bohemian circles of the greatest writers and surrealist artists of their time.

The influence of these comrades is evident in "Nightwood", a work of psychological surrealism first published in 1937. As with any exceptional painting, the power of "Nightwood" is not as easily seen in the details, as it is in the stepping-away from the details. The book is meticulous, down to the finest pinpricks of emotional nuance, and getting lost or bogged down in them is easy. What I found is that once you step back, you begin to see the awesome human landscape Barnes has created. "Nightwood" is a surrealist painting in words.

After doing a bit of homework on Barnes, I got my hands on a copy of "Nightwood", which is her most famous work. Though it has never been a commercially successful book, it has always been regarded as a literary masterpiece. But because of its lack of mainstream appeal, as well as its taboo-for-the-time plot points (lesbianism, feminism, cross-dressing, psychoanalysis), its status as a classic has been relegated to mostly underground acclaim.

T.S. Eliot wrote the introduction to "Nightwood", and in it he gives what is perhaps the best piece of advice one can take before starting the book. Eliot urges us not to take in the story as a reader, but rather as a poet. I daresay that only those who can appreciate poetry will appreciate what Barnes does with her seminal novel. It is tremendously -- oftentimes frustratingly -- complex. The aforementioned dedication to detail can be quite maddening: there are so many intricate ideas laid out that wrapping your mind around all of them is downright impossible. The book is a scant 170 pages, but it took me nearly a week to read. I found myself having to go back and reread sentences, paragraphs, even whole chapters over again. Even 70+ years later, "Nightwood" spills over with new, exciting, dangerous, and fascinating ideas.

The book chronicles five starkly different people caught up in the orbit of an enigmatic, mesmerizing woman named Robin Vote. There is her husband, the artificial baron Felix Volkbein, and their sensitive, unstable son Guido. There is her lover, the heartbroken and bereft Nora Flood. There is another lover, the unoriginal Jenny Petherbridge (nicknamed "The Squatter" for her lack of original thought and the way she lifts aspects of other people's identities). And then there is Robin's philosophizing, transvestite doctor, Matthew O'Connor, who isn't really a doctor at all. Sound confusing? Well, it is.

But it's also one of the most captivating, beautiful novels ever written. Calling Barnes' style "prose" is doing a great disservice; it really is poetry. The words are lush, thick, enchanting: you feel as if you are not reading, but swimming through her sentences. Her talent for describing both the epic and mundane is unparalleled in anything I've ever read; her every word has been chosen and weighed with great care. The images Barnes paints are deliberate, planned, and memorable.

This is also the novel's great challenge. Dr. O'Connor's role in the book can be declared a sort of Greek chorus. He seems to know intimately every aspect of the other characters' lives, and he uses these lives to expound upon his endless philosophies and conclusions about human nature. He does this through a series of conversations, which are really more monologues, since he has a habit of overpowering everyone with his interesting, though often confusing, ideas. I can't say I even scratched the tip of what the good doctor was theorizing.

Perhaps that's why I loved this book so much. "Nightwood" doesn't pander to the lowest common denominator. Barnes was no dummy, and she knew her readers wouldn't be either. Her story tests us in a way that most books don't. It pushes our buttons, forces us out of our comfort zones, and shows us human nature -- and, by extension, our own individual nature -- warts and all. It does so unapologetically and with great élan.

Don't go into "Nightwood" expecting an easy ride (I was so lost and flustered in the first chapter that I debated abandoning the book; thank God I didn't). Swim through the words and let them wash over your skin. Some will soak in immediately, more will be absorbed in the stepping-back. But even more will remain like the novel's heroine: aloof, seductive, and unforgettable.

Book Review: "Lord of Scoundrels" by Loretta Chase

Romance novelists have a thankless job.

One might assume that romance novelists spend their sunny days holed up (no pun intended) in immaculately-appointed, chintz-covered parlors, pitter-patting away on their computers, amongst heaps of love letters and the lingering scents of lilac and rose. They may occasionally sip some Evian from a goblet of Lalique crystal, or reach for a box of Christopher Norman chocolates sent by an adoring lover. All the while, a strategically-concealed Bose sound system spills out violin sonatas or Callas arias: musical honey to inspire the romantic soul and the pen that translates it.

Well, I don't think I'm taking much of a risk here by saying that this isn't how most romance novelists write. I speak from experience, since I'm still hacking and kvetching and throwing my hands in the air over the romance novel I myself am writing. Or attempting to write.

Most of us sit in our darkened dens of creativity, trying not to nod off in the blue light of the computer screen, struggling to ignore the screaming baby on another floor, or the ear-splitting street noise rising up from below. We may reach for our cold Sanka from time to time, in between swatting the cats off the keyboard and wondering which one didn't make it to the litterbox in order to create that awful stench lingering in the air. And in between all of this, we fearless romance novelists must not only write amorous, entertaining stories: we must take an age-old formula and wrap it in sparkly new clothes.

For that's what the great majority of romance writing is: adhering to the accepted, stamped-and-approved, age-old Formula of the Romance Novel, while trying to make the elements of the story fresh and entertaining. You'd think this might be easy, since you're embarking upon a story that's been written hundreds of thousands of times before; you just have to dress it up a bit. But trust me, it's not this simple. It's like attempting to write with an invisible ghost (Dame Barbara Cartland perhaps?) fiendishly judging your every keystroke. And she's a ruthless literary commandant who answers only to Fabio.

If I'm making it sound impossible to write a decent romance, let me just clarify that there are some well-written ones out there. Just as in any genre of literature, there are, in romance, writers with varying degrees of talent and skill. I've read some truly exceptional romance novels, like "The Spymaster's Lady" by Joanna Bourne and "Nightrose" by Dorothy Garlock.

I've read some mediocre ones, like "Nobody's Darling" by Teresa Medeiros and "The Wolf of Haskell Hall" by Colleen Shannon.

And I have read some really, really stinky ones, like "Savage Heat" by Cassie Edwards and "The Demon's Daughter" by Emma Holly.

Since I have undertaken writing a romance novel, I have studied the usual romance novel formula. It's typically something along the lines of: Hero and Heroine meet, Hero and Heroine spar, Hero and Heroine secretly want one another, Hero and Heroine have wild monkey sex, Hero and Heroine get married and live happily ever after. There is usually some type of subplot going on, involving a bad guy(s) trying to thwart the lovers. At times, these subplots can work quite well. At others, they can be distracting and viewed as nothing more than filler material. Most romances, after all, are nearly 400 paperback pages. The above-outlined formula can be accomplished in, say, about a dozen, making filler material a requirement for a book-length manuscript.

All of the landmines that romance novelists encounter can be transcended with one thing and one thing only: good writing. If a romance novelist knows how to write well and tell a story with respect and flair, it can lift the entire tired old story to the status of art form.

This is what I experienced while reading "Lord of Scoundrels", an historical romance by Loretta Chase, originally published in 1995 (and recently reissued). I was referred to Chase's writing by a trustworthy source in all things Romance Novel, as a writer who is truly at the top of her game. Chase is able to take The Formula and dress it in those sparkly new clothes, just by way of her strong skills as a writer and storyteller.

"Scoundrels" is the story of Lord Dain (the sexy, troubled scoundrel) and Jessica Trent (the snappy, stubborn heroine). The Formula is of course at work here: they meet, they spar, they flirt, they fuck, they save the day. All of that is nothing new. What was new to me was the talent with which Chase is able to get into the minds of her characters. Let's face it: falling in love is the most illogical, indescribable thing in the world. Making it happen in a believable, natural way is a momentous task.

But Loretta Chase meets that task with panache. She is able to convincingly and fluidly shift perspective between her hero and heroine, giving almost voyeuristic access to their every thought, desire, and hesitation. She imbues her iron-willed characters with such vulnerable humanity that every step of their unfolding love comes off as both believable and understandable.

She even handles the subplot requirement with deftness. The subplot, revolving around some of Dain's double-crossing friends, his skanky ex-lover, and the search for a precious piece of artwork, is fleshed out enough to be memorable and interesting, but not overpowering to the story at hand. In true soap opera style, there's even an illegitimate son flitting around the heart of the tale, and Chase uses this as not a cheap gimmick, but a plausible way to further illustrate her hero's emotional journey. Though the story itself is nothing new or revolutionary, Chase's talent as a writer skillfully makes us forget that fact.

One more thing I really enjoyed about "Lord of Scoundrels": the sex scenes. But not for reasons you might think. You see, out of all the romance novels I've read, this one has the fewest, sparest love scenes. Chase does not find it necessary to go on for page after page about the absolute physical perfection of her characters in coitus. She's more focused on the story she's telling, and the moments of sex, while beautifully written, are not the driving force (once again, no pun intended) here. I think this is a testament to the author's considerable talent: she's not relying on trite romance novel buzzwords ("rosy bud", "stiff rod", "Venus mound", et. al.) and soft-core porn to make her story work.

"Scoundrels" is not without its problems, though. There were three minor issues I had with the book. One is the cover. While it's true that romance novelists have no say in what the covers of their books will look like, the cover of the reissue I read sadly missed the mark. It's all pastel blues and greens and pinks, all watercolors and soft angles. The portraits of the hero and heroine looked nothing like their physical descriptions, or at least not how I had envisioned them. The "gauziness" of the artwork is misleading to the story: these are two feisty, opinionated characters represented as sappy, wistful lovers. I'd hoped for something darker, more in keeping with the personalities of the hero and heroine and the general moodiness of their story.

Another issue I had was the nearly unreadable Cockney vernacular used by one of Dain's servants. I hate, absolutely hate, reading dialog that attempts to mimic a regional accent. It's impossible, even coming from a writer as skilled as Chase, what with all the dropped letters and made-up gibberish. The only romance novelist I've encountered who is a true master at portraying these dialects, without mangling letters and spellings, is Joanne Bourne. Bourne is able to create regional dialect with an unexplainable ease (to better grasp this, read "The Spymaster's Lady").

The last problem I had was Chase's decision to make one of her villains a -- gasp! -- bisexual. Or at least, his bisexuality is hinted at. LGBT people get enough flack. Can't we at least be the sassy best friend in a romance novel? Why make us villains, as so many books, movies, and television shows have done for decades?

These are minor roadblocks, though. I only wish all romance novels were as expertly-executed as "Lord of Scoundrels". Loretta Chase proves that not only can oily-hunk-covered, five-buck paperbacks be entertaining...but skillfully written as well.

A Portait of the Reader As A Child

"Nothing in the whole world felt as good as being able to make something from a sudden idea." -Beverly Cleary, "Ramona Quimby, Age 8"


Ever since I mentioned the unsinkable Ramona Quimby in a posting a few days ago, I haven't been able to get the sassy little girl out of my mind. It's led me on a surprising, pleasant journey to a time in my childhood when I was first beginning to grow into something resembling the man I am today: a serious, devoted reader. I've been thinking about all the books I loved as a child, from the time when my mom read me books, to the years when I chose my own reading material. Books have shaped me. Indeed, they still do. To this day, whenever I read a good book, it makes me want to jump up and view the world through different, clearer eyes. Books have tremendous power.

My mom is currently sending me a new copy of what was undoubtedly my first favorite book, "Morris Goes to School" by B. Wiseman. My original copy is tucked away at home, but for the sake of posterity -- and the fact that it is well-read, well-loved, and, hence, well-worn -- we decided to keep it where it's at. I will soon have my hands on a new copy of "Morris", and I (a 31-year-old man) CAN'T WAIT.

"Morris Goes to School" was one of the books that my mother read to me in the years before I could read. It's surprisingly long (60+ pages, if memory serves), but that didn't deter me from picking it out night after night after night. I had a huge collection of children's books -- I clearly recall tons of Disney books -- but "Morris" was the one I always came back to. Repeatedly and ad nauseum. Often several nights in a row. Damn I loved that moose.

It's the story of the big lovable galoot Morris, who is (duh!) a moose. He lives amongst human children, who don't seem to find it the least bit odd that they are friends with a large, furry, none-too-bright land mammal. Morris is frustrated early on, as he figures out that he can't read or count, thereby setting him apart from the other children. He wants to buy gumdrops at the candy store, but he can't read the sign or count his money or figure out how many gumdrops he can buy. This inspires him to go to school, which he does, and is taught by the patient, bespectacled Miss Fine (who is also unfazed by the presence of a moose in her classroom). He struggles, of course, but by the end of the book, Morris is able to purchase a supply of gumdrops, and all is right with the world.

It's hard to say why I was so drawn to Morris. It certainly wasn't the counting lesson in the story. Even at a young age, my aversion to numbers was strong. It may have been that Morris was desperate to learn to read, and I too was at an age where I was ready to decipher those squiggles on the page and make sense of them. Or it also could've been the learned Miss Fine, with her wire-rimmed glasses, upturned nose, and short skirt. She was so hot.

I also enjoyed the Mercer Mayer and Richard Scarry books. I don't remember much about them, but I do recall my grandpa reading me several of the Mayer books. We would make it a game to find the one strategically-hidden baby creature (what the hell were those things? hedgehogs?) in every illustration. Bear in mind that this was in the pre-Waldo years.

The Scarry books are even less clear in my memory. I do know, though, that I loved the curvy brown earthworm who always wore a green hat with a jaunty red feather. Whenever the worms came out after a heavy rain, I used to search in vain for the one sporting the same accessory as Scarry's. I never found him.

By the time I was able to read, I was devouring Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume. Ramona Quimby was my hero. She appeared in many of Cleary's earlier Henry Huggins books, but she was always a supporting player and nothing more than the whiny little sister. It was a great vindication to read of her own adventures, therefore discovering the youngster in all her complicated, curious glory. None of her experiences were extreme or full of derring-do. They were simply the life events of a child, seen and understood through the eyes of a child. Ramona was the first literary character that showed me how books could make you feel less alone in the world. Less alone, more understood, and somehow justified for being an inquisitive, sensitive kid. I'll always be grateful to Ramona for that.

I liked the Judy Blumes I read as well, but not nearly as much. "Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing", "Superfudge", and "Blubber" were enjoyable for me, but I didn't identify as readily with the heroes of those stories. I read these after Ramona, since they were a bit more advanced, yet I couldn't help comparing them to the eponymous little sister of Cleary's creation. I wished Ramona would grow up with me and chronicle her encounters along the way, but that didn't happen. Cleary didn't write another Ramona book till 1999.

It's interesting to ruminate on these books, examining them with an adult's eye. I think all kids just want to be heard, and the adventures of Ramona are a tribute to that. A voice was given to those who typically aren't taken very seriously. But in the world of an 8-year-old, what might seem insignificant to an adult is life-changing for a child. Cleary understood this.

I remember when Ramona learned how to write her name in cursive. She would make a dramatic flourish with the Y at the end of her name, and then decorate the tip of the curve with a series of dots. Like 4th of July sparklers, she reasoned.

To this day, whenever I sign my name, I still think about doing that.