Summer Reading List: Part the First

I've been on another insane reading kick lately, to the point that I hadn't even touched a television remote for DAYS before I went away on vacation. Since then, I've only used it to click over to Lego Harry Potter on the Wii (don't judge), and the only time I see it happening in the foreseeable future is when I tune in for the Olympics (because I am a total junkie who only gets a hit every two years, so I plan to drink all of it in while I can). 

Since most of my friends are compiling their list of summer books, and I know that you're all just champing at the bit to find out what has been piquing my interest lately, without further ado, here are my current reads:
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- Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

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If someone had given me a penny for every time I declared my hatred of this book in high school, I would have been one rich lady. And if they'd taken away a penny for every time that I have declared my undying love for this book since, I would be on literary-induced welfare. About a month ago, I blew $45 over the span of a week by devouring trashy teen paranormal romance novels by the day. I loved them because they were cheap, easy and full of flashy moments. But rereading Wuthering Heights makes me feel like the mom in Bridget Jones -- after a momentary lapse in judgement involving the fancy infomercial guy, I've realized that flash and availability are no match for the substance and foundation on which my personal history is built. Plus, I would pick Heathcliff and Cathy over Christian and Ana in a cagematch, hands down.   

- Therese Raquin by Emile Zola

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My seventy-seven year old co-worker brought this in and insisted that I absolutely had to read it. At first, I put it off because really, didn't I put enough time into old European classics in college? Then she kept asking me about it, so I figured at 300 pages, it was worth a shot. Thank the Sorceress that I did, because this one is like an old-timey literary soap opera -- sex, intrigue, murder and uptight Parisians (my favorite kind!). I'm sure my fellow beach-goers on the Vineyard were impressed by the tattered paper copy of a 135-year old novel, too, so bonus smug bitch points for that.

- This Year You Write Your Novel by Walter Mosley

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I was first introduced to Walter Mosley's work during my junior year of college, when I took a course in Contemporary American Mystery Novels. At the time, I tended to equate anything termed "contemporary" with "beach read**", so I have to admit that Devil in a Blue Dress caught me completely by surprise. I found myself not only identifying with, but rooting for, protagonist Easy Rawlins, despite having virtually nothing in common with him besides our shared humanity. The ability to do this is, to me, the sign of a great author, and as such, I snatched up Mosley's short guide to fiction the moment I saw it. Jammed full of tidbits such as (and I am paraphrasing here), "don't be afraid to insult people; no one is reading this but you, and if you ever do get published, screw them if they aren't happy for you", it has yet to disappoint. 

- Writing Fiction: The Practical Guide from New York's Acclaimed Writing School by The Gotham Writers' Workshop

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If you live in a big city, chances are that you have seen those gaudy yellow "Writing Classes dot com" bins located on street corners next to your local neighborhood news. I'll admit, at the time I bought this book three years ago, I did not equate the two in any way. This actually worked to the book's advantage, because I'm pretty sure that I would not have picked it up had I known its authors were hawking their wares to every Tom, Dick and Harry on the corner. HOWEVER, I can admit when I'm being a judgmental jackass, and this is one of those times. This handy guide is a fabulous resource for those who want to break into writing fiction, but are overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the endeavor and are seeking a place to start. Reminiscent of an intro-level college creative writing class, covering both fiction theory and construct, each chapter also has prompts to get you started and to help translate your thoughts to the page.
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For now, that's it. I'm almost finished with both Wuthering Heights and Therese Raquin, and while I have a strong urge to re-read some other classics (most of which are free on e-readers), there are a number of other, more contemporary reads currently waiting for me on my Nook. In particular, I'm looking forward to Heart of the Matter by Emily Giffen and American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld, per my Twitter followers' suggestions, and I swear one of these days I'm going to get back into Game of Thrones (I've been on page 150 of A Clash of Kings for the past three months).

In the meantime, if you've read anything good lately, feel free to leave it in the comments so that everyone can rack up their book budget for the summer!

**Despite this comment, I don't want anyone to get the idea that I'm some kind of book snob in any way. As I've said before, I am actually a big fan of fiction of all varieties, including, but not limited to, so-called "chick lit" and mass-market paperback mysteries. I've read and enjoyed everything from the Shopaholic Series to the Fifty trilogy to Twilight (ok, maybe when I say "enjoyed" the latter I mean, "enjoyed ridiculing", but that's irrelevant). I'm a proponent of the idea that reading is reading, no matter the source material, and that is something that I very strongly promote. So, if you have any recommendations for must-read books that might or might not be considered, "beach trash", send 'em my way!

When in Doubt, Book It

It's nice, every so often, to emerge from the depths of Grant Hell work and be able to say hello to you guys again! I wish I had a record of how many times I've said, "whoa... must remember to blog about that!" over the past two weeks or so, because I think whoever came up with the phrase, "out of sight, out of mind" is full of bs. I never forget about you guys!

However, as Melissa pointed out yesterday, there's something inherently more stressful about "I have to get this shit done so people can get their paychecks and feed their children/cats/selves!" than there is about "omg! guyz! My blogging schedule (or lack thereof?) is totes stressin' me out!". And so blogging has taken a backseat for the past few weeks, because I prefer another method of stress relief when I find time to come up for air.

Basically, all I've been doing lately is reading in my spare time. It's the single best escape from life's insanity that I've ever found; I got away from my crazy family by doing it at age 3 and I avoid the stress of work by doing it at 26. I'm actually convinced that part of the reason I managed NOT to lose my shit during my breakdown year and drop out of college is because I was forced to take a large chunk of my day and devote it specifically to the task of reading. Some of it was monotonous (Dracula), some was hilarious (Shamela), some game-changers (On the Road, Uncle Tom's Cabin) and some had the opposite effect than expected (loved Hope Leslie and finally, the third time, Wuthering Heights; hated Native Speaker and Dog Soldiers). All were pivotal in helping me keep my sanity during a time that otherwise would have crushed my soul.

My family has always joked that for someone with a degree in English Literature and a concentration in Victorian and Gothic canon, I read more trashy fluffy material than anyone they've ever met. I don't know about anyone else, but I seem to do my "pleasure reading" in spurts. In the past two months, I've read Catching Fire, Mockingjay, Something Borrowed, Something Blue, Baby Proof, Love the One You're With, Skylight Confessions, If You Were Here, My Fair Lazy, Bossypants, half of My Life in France (love it but misplaced it) and half of The Almost Moon (hate it and threw it across the room misplaced it).

Not exactly Bronte or Austin, but entertaining and it gets the job done.

Lest you worry that I only read chick lit and young adult fare, have no fear -- while rooting around everywhere to find my copy of Voyager, the third book in the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon, and loudly voicing my frustration that I "had nothing to read" (from the girl whose living room is beginning to look like an episode of Hoarders: Barnes and Noble Edition), Andrew piped up that I could borrow one of the books he had bought on our last fro yo Brooline Booksmith stop: Game of Thrones.

He hadn't even read it yet, but I had dibbsed it mere seconds after he bought it, so I was pumped. We haven't seen the show (holla to no cable/internet!), so it was all totally new to me, but I could. not. put. it. down. I finished it yesterday and am gleefully plotting my Targaryon-style takeover of my parents' tv and $200 cable package for 48 hours of GoT marathon viewing. Thankfully, I also found Voyager about two days after I embarked on the madness of GoT, and am now happily engrossed in Jamie that.

If you're keeping score, that means I've been hauling around a collective 2,000 pages of fantasy fiction in my purse.

I might be a nerd.



One day, in my own fantasy world where funding has been preserved for all (no progress reports required), I swear I am going to get around to posting those book reviews I promised awhile ago. In the meantime, here's a hint regarding what one of those reviews might be about:

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I seriously can't wait.

Read any good books lately? Do tell!
I'm always on the lookout for recommendations!

Books and Beatings

Long time, no talk, peeps! As usual, no excuses -- after the whole "rut" post, I just didn't feel like I was in a good place for writing.

Instead, I chose to immerse myself in the wonderful world of literature for the past week and got some good reads in. I got some crazy belly laughs out of Bright Lights, Big Ass by my beloved Jen Lancaster, a little deep thinking from Water for Elephants courtesy of the lovely Katie, and I am now forcing my bad mood to die with the wise words of comedic genius Tina Fey and Bossypants.

I might decide to write actual reviews of one or all of the above, or I might not. At the moment, though, I'm very psyched to be reading again -- I went to Borders during my adventure to Legacy Place last weekend with $30 on a giftcard and walked out with five books and $8 out of my wallet. BLBA was one, but then I borrowed the other two from Katie, so I still have four more delights to look forward to once I finish Bossypants! The Almost Moon by Alice Sebold, some book about lanterns by Alice Hoffman, My Life in France by Julia Child [my love of Julie & Julia shall never die, no matter how disappointed I was when I finally found Julie Powell's blog and had my own, "not such a fan of my idol" moment] and Voyager by Diana Gabaldon.

Score.

In other news, I decided to take my own advice and for the first part of my "Get Back on Track" graph, the agenda is focused on getting my ass up off the couch/bed and getting some sweat sessions in.

With this in mind, Saturday afternoon, rather than after hunkering down in bed and reading the entire second half of BLBA while consuming my weight in chocolate chips all morning, I hauled myself out to Target. $65 and some candle holders I never knew I needed later, I came home with the prize:

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Jillian, you feisty biatch!

Back when I got really serious about my weight, before the whole disordered eating/calorie counting hysteria began in my brain, I did the 30 Day Shred in January of 2010. Like a lot of people, I didn't actually lose much weight over the course of the month, but the numbers spoke for themselves: despite only a 3-lb scale loss, I took off over 7" collectively from various body parts. I got loads of compliments on my improved muscle tone ("How does one go about losing that chicken wing?" is a personal fave), particularly in my arms and quads, and there was a definite noticeable change around the mid-section. My Starbucks-worthy muffin top was downgraded to "miniature cupcake, hold the frosting", and there was even the faintest hint of the top two ab muscles threatening to peak out. Pumped, indeed.

So, when I decided that the first step to clawing my way out of the abyss known as my head was to get back to regular workouts, did I turn to my $70/month gym membership? No. Did I turn it over to Hal Higdon and the promise of running that half marathon I've been yapping about in October? Heck no.

I went to Jillian.

Ripped in 30 is set up the same way as the Shred, using JM's 3-2-1 system of 3 minutes compound strength, 2 minutes of cardio, 1 minute of abs through three circuits. Like 30DS, you need some weights and a mat -- and if you're anything like me, a shitload of water, because otherwise the odds of your neighbors calling the cops due to a horrible stench emanating from your apartment and your loved ones finding you dead on the floor are very high. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I like that instead of two strength exercises alternating through each circuit, R30 has three, so you're doing 30 seconds of each, rather than 45, and repeating. It seems ridiculous, but when I'm doing lunges, those 15 seconds really make a difference in my effort. Jillian also pays WAY more attention to form this time around, which is super important. I also like that it's designed to be done 5-6 times per week, with at least one day of total rest, rather than 10 solid days in a row before you can switch things up. For me, the prospect of devoting 10 days to something is daunting. 5-6 times in the course of a week, though? Doable.

Granted, I haven't been doing a ton of strength lately, but it's not like I've been blowing off my workouts ENTIRELY in favor of cramming whipped cream down my pie hole (too inappropriate for a TWSS here? I thought so). I've been going to Zumba every Tuesday and trying to walk or run a few miles per week via treadmill, at the very least. And 30DS has always caused me a little huffing and puffing at first, but let me be the first to say, R30 has twice now reduced me to a panting, gasping, pile of liquified sludge on the floor. Did I mention this was AFTER THE FIRST CIRCUIT? Because it was. The first time, I made it through with only that one pause; the next day, though, resulted in a pause at each circuit to CHUG water, and ended with a slump onto the couch, after which Andrew could still find an imprint of my sweat-stained head on the arm of the sofa 3 hours later.

Needless to say, I think Ripped rips 30DS in half. I've done the first two days of Week 1, and I can say that yesterday my upper back and hammies were feeling the burn. I've worn my Polar HRM for both L1 of 30DS and Week 1 of Ripped, and burned an extra 10-30 calories with R30... and I forgot to hit "Start" until after the warmup both times.

I skipped yesterday, but am dedicated to getting R30 D3 out of the way tonight. I'm still battling WICKED fatigue, and I know it's going to get worse before it gets better. Part of it is my allergies (I've been getting allergy shots for the past two years, five at a time, ranging from 2x/wk to 1x/month, which is, roughly, one million sticks with a needle), but this year, rather than the dead-stop inducing migraines they usually use to torture me, they've decided to manifest themselves more as skin ailments -- there is seriously not a six-inch square swath of my body right now that doesn't have some kind of itchy, red welt on it. Neck? Oh, sure. Under arms, right where they rub on your shirt's sides while jogging? Yes, please. Wrists? Oh yeah! Lower back? Why not?

You can imagine what going through high school was like with this condition. Ugh.

To make it even better worse, you know what makes it worse? Sweat. And even worse than that? Showering/bathing.

Sorry, Andrew.

Friday Confessional: I Hate Jodi Picoult

Similar to my new, non-structured series, I Go Back, I've decided that I want a more permanent "Theme Post" for everyone to look forward to, where I promise to post a little distraction from the regular topics (Note: Yes, I get that at the moment, my focus is rather... unfocused as it is. I hope for that to change with time!). From this point forward, on Fridays, I am going to do a little feature called "Friday Confessional". Each week, I will admit to, well... something. It can be controversial, ridiculous, or just plain embarrassing (believe me; there will be no shortage of topics). I figure it can be like Andy Rooney on 60 Minutes, which we all know is the only reason anyone still tunes in. Man, do I love that old coot. 

A few weeks ago, I confessed that even though I grumble and groan with the best of 'em, I secretly LOVE horrible weather. Pagophobia be damned (if you had to look that up, don't feel bad; I did, too), I get a little thrill out of knowing my entire city is going to be shut down and everyone will be inconvenienced. Evil? Probably. Fun? You betcha.

So, this week, without further ado, I hereby confess:

While I will cop to loving my fair share of chick lit, I LOATHE the collected works of Jodi Picoult.

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And I don't just mean, "wow, I can't believe I just wasted an entire day and a half reading this book," hate; I mean, "I not only want my money back but I want her entire advance plus royalties transferred to my bank account immediately as reparations" hate. A burning, fiery, throw-all-of-her-books-off-of-a-cliff-while-possibly-doing-some-kind-of-dance-from-the-netherworld hate.

There, I said it. Go ahead, revoke my girl license. I knew it was coming.

I can't stand the flowery, predictable dialogue. I can't stand the over-the-top cathartic moments. Most of all, I can't stand that I can read the first paragraph of one of her books and know that the entire story will play out as some emotionally-wrought parable about interpersonal connection, inner turmoil and the protagonist's attempt to cope with whatever dramatic event is unfolding in the crisis du jour.

"BUT WAIT!" I've heard a hundred times, as soon as one of my friends, acquaintances, or random person on the bus gets clued in to my burning hatred. "THIS one has a TWIST!"

This is my shocked face.

OF COURSE this one has a twist. Guess what? THEY ALL HAVE A TWIST! It never fails to amaze me how many readers I've talked who to have waxed on and on about how no one saw the twist coming. Really? REALLY?! I was going to go into a whole synopsis of all the twists I never saw coming in the five JP books I've read, except then I realized it's hard to synopsize zero.

Look, I'm not a literary critic. I'm not a professional writer or an agent, acquisitions editor or anything remotely connected to the world of publishing. But I do have a degree in English and I've been devouring books since the age of 2. (No, literally, I devoured them - there are incriminating photos of me with See Spot Run and bits of cardboard hanging from my three teeth).  I don't mind a little bit of bad writing (See: Coben, Harlan and Kinsella, Sophie), and I don't even hate books with contrived plots and dialogue (See: Weiner, Jennifer, and her last three offerings -- but don't mess with her earlier books; those are sacred!). But I want to at least love the characters, or the language, or some basic facet of the book. I get that there are tons of readers out there who totally LOVE Jodi and everything she stands for, but she is just not my cup tea.

In summary, in my opinion, Jodi Picoult deserves a throne in the inner circle of Writer Hell, right next to that other bastion of literary technique, Stephanie Meyer. Yeah, you heard me...

Suck it, Edward.

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Boom! Roasted!

So, readers, what do you think? Is Jodi a literary goddess or a writer who reeks? Am I the only one who gets creeped out by RPattz' colossal coiffure? What should I cop to next? Thoughts, comments, concerns -- feel free to send 'em my way!