I wrote about being outside, playing in the fields that were behind our then apartment. I remember writing about looking up at the sky, examining a leaf, and my dad shouting down to me that the Tigers had just won the World Series (actually, they’d won it about two years earlier). I remember writing that I was unimpressed, as I actually didn’t like baseball too much. From there, I’m pretty sure I added a crazy story about being lost in the fields and coming across a group of gnomes or something like that. There wasn’t much of a plot or good characterization to the story—being eight, I think I was just spilling words onto a page—but I remember having fun as I put it together. I handed it in, delighted with my efforts and somewhat proud of what I had produced.

What did my third-grade teacher write back on my paper?

“This is too fiction.”

Even then, I knew she was batshit insane. How can fiction be too fictitious!? Suffice it to say, I never looked toward her again as an arbiter of good storytelling.

But I got the writing bug, and I’d jot down small stories, only a few lines here and there, when I wasn’t busy at school, reading at home, or playing NES. I truly enjoyed it, but I think the teacher’s admonition stayed with me—I didn’t share my writings. The only time I did was when my family moved to Mexico, and I wrote about being sad at the idea of leaving my best friend at the time. I showed it to my mom and dad, who seemed genuinely impressed by my literary skills, but didn’t take the not-so-veiled hint that I didn’t want to move to Mexico.

By the time I landed back in Saline schools in eighth grade, I was still writing. This time, I was missing Mexico and wrote my heart out about it—mostly in the form of sappy poems and short stories about my friends there. In my English class, I had a student teacher from the University of Michigan take a shine to my writings—he’d read them aloud in class, prefacing it that I wished to remain anonymous. I remember one time he brought in an English-major friend of his—when she asked who in the class loved to write, my student teacher gestured in my direction, giving me an encouraging smile that faded when I didn’t budge to raise my hand. I hated school, I hated Saline, and I was not going to tell my classmates that I was the one who’d written the poems and stories. I was afraid that, once they found out I had written them, praise would turn into ridicule and I’d be more alienated than I already felt. Thanks, Mr. Nice Student Teacher, I know you were only trying to encourage my interests, but not in that environment. No way, no how.

The pattern continued. In my senior year, my English teacher loved my writing and would ask to, again, read aloud what I had written. I still wished to remain anonymous, which frustrated the hell out of her, but she had to respect my wishes. I remember a couple of times my classmates pointing gleefully to a guy who was known as a writer, telling him he’d written a good story and slapping his back. But he’d just shake his head with a look that said, “That’s not me, but I wish it were.” I’d just sit there and watch, not really caring that he got the accolades; the person who was giving out the grades knew it was me, and that’s all that really mattered at that point.

My teacher pulled her trump card, though, by awarding me the English award that year—I had to be at the ceremony as I was on the highest honor roll list and was receiving a scholarship from a local source. In her intro to the award, my teacher lavished praise, complimented my writing, encouraged me to keep writing, and knew that I would find publishing success. The entire intro, I was idly wondering who it was, not truly paying attention. Then my name was spoken. I remember being stunned as my parents turned to me, bursting with pride. I stumbled up to the stage, burning with something halfway between pride and shame—as nice as it was, I didn’t want this. I never wanted to be exposed to my classmates. The times I had been, even accidentally, were always followed by ridicule in some way or another. Luckily it was the end of the year—I didn’t have to suffer too much.

In college, I continued to write, and I continued to not share for a while. I forced myself to, though, by taking creative writing classes and trying to push past my comfort zone. In my freshman year, I tried to publish one of my novels. I submitted poems and short stories, always under a pseudonym, to magazines and other formats. I even started a website where I posted my own stuff and accepted submissions (and people actually took my submission guidelines seriously!). I was having fun with the written letter, and I was having fun interacting with people who didn’t care who I was—I apparently wrote well, and that was that.

Then, along with grad school, the real world hit. There wasn’t time for creative writing anymore. And it’s been like that for a long while. In the meantime, I’ve felt a growing hesitancy about my creative writing, and sometimes I still feel like that eight-year-old girl whose writing was first sniffed at by a Saline teacher—but this time the girl didn’t continue writing, at least not creatively.

Well, I'm halfway there ...

The blog and my extensive reading have been a way for me to remain in the world of writing and books—I say that the blog writing keeps me on my toes, and I say that the reading I do is to explore the ways in which I would like to write. Both things are true. I’ve also had some writing recently published under my real name—it’s not fiction, but having the courage to send something out into the wider world was a big step for me. I also write for a living (well, mostly). But I’m missing the last piece of the puzzle—actually sitting down to write, be it a short story or a novel.

So I’m making myself do it. How? By taking a fiction writing class that was a Christmas gift from IP. And it starts this week.

Um. Gulp.

It’s time to jump, and it’s time to stop being afraid of what happens when I put pen to paper. It’s going to be rough for a bit—after all, I’m rusty, and the words may come out stilted and awkward at first. But maybe, just maybe, after some work and feedback, I’ll begin to feel more confident in my abilities. And then maybe, just maybe, I’ll put together something that I’m proud of and want to show to the rest of world—or make the noble effort to show it to the rest of the world, since getting published is no easy task.

Whatever the case, getting myself to write is the first step. And I’m taking it.

Wish me luck.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Oh, c’mon. Like y’all haven’t said that at least once to yourselves since 2012 began.

Cheesy and incorrect associations with the Mayan calendar aside (and I must scoff a bit at TNT, playing Deep Impact on New Year’s Eve), it’s time for Sonnet 87’s 2011 Year in Review (hey, better late than never, right?). And what a year it was.

Kinda. Well, let’s see:

January 2011: Looking back at the blog posts for 2011, I’m surprised that my heavy discontent with my old job began so early in the year. With the news that the consultant/crony hire was going to be taking on writing tasks that I was absolutely tailored for, I’m floored. Utterly floored and somewhat heartbroken to think that my former company valued me so little. It was something of a blow because—and here’s why I’m surprised at the timeframe looking back—the change was truly abrupt. Now that I think about it, it coincided with the ascension of the crony’s friend who got her the job. And that coincided with me distancing myself from a coworker who kind of had a “Married Mexican Female” fixation on me. In abandoning her to her own devices (and essentially allying myself with everyone else who’d realized she was crazy and manipulative—yes, I was slow on the uptake), she realized she was on her own and decided to essentially go rogue. And that meant screwing everyone else over. Bad part? It worked with the VP and that, in the end, was all that mattered. How a company can be skewed eleventy billion to two and still have the two come out on top is mind boggling. But there it is. For fun, IP and I visit Mathgeek in Boston (and it is frickin’ cold!), enjoying some time with him while he works through his independent activity period. We also traveled to New York City—I got to see my first Broadway show (Wicked). The end of the month was spent in a cold-induced stupor thanks to PEPCO’s inability to keep the power on.

February 2011: I celebrate five years in the city, getting my only DC Blogs mention of the year out of it (which doesn’t surprise me—at this point, DC Blogs is so predictable that I can tell you which blogger will be cited which day of the week, so I’ve stopped reading). I post a bunch of book reviews that month as my reading gears up for another page-heavy year. I begin training for the Cherry Blossom 10 Mile Run, and reassure myself that starting over from scratch, running-wise, isn’t the worst thing in the world. There are rumblings of a shutdown, and I’m so unhappy at work that I hope for it to happen.

March 2011: My work discontent continues, so much so that I take a mental health day. But I’m so stressed by the situation that my stomach starts to act up, big time—I’m in constant pain, am perpetually worried, and (TMI) forever running to the restroom. It’s worse during morning commutes, but I still feel sick during my evening rides, too. I try not to let it bother me, but it starts to hamper my everyday life and my race training. I just can’t get rid of my anxiety, but at the time I don’t make the connection to work. My parents visit and my mom encourages me to apply to a particular, venerable institution, saying they’d love me (well …). Funny enough, said venerable institution has a job opening that’s up my alley, posted the week after my mom makes the suggestion that I go work there. I apply. What the hell, right? IP and I celebrate nine years together.

April 2011: What the hell is right. I’m given a phone interview with venerable institution shortly after I apply for the job. I think I do okay—I flub one question, but otherwise I think I do fine. I’m proved right when I get a callback for a full interview. As government shutdown rumblings continue, I nobly sacrifice my need for time away by detailing what I’ll do if we go into shutdown mode. As predicted, my noble sacrifice is accepted and the government continues to run. I run a successful Cherry Blossom 10 Mile race, shaving seven goddamn minutes off of my last time—seven minutes, y’all! Let’s hope this year sees something similar. I join IP in volunteering for a new project that he’s working on and end up meeting a lot of great people. Over the year, I’ll become more involved with the project and enjoy the work I’m doing. Dear lord, if we both could do this full time …

May 2011: I have my interview, which I feel goes well. Aside from interviewing with my would-be boss, I don’t interact with other members of my would-be team. That unnerves me just a bit, but I decide it’s all good and just resolve to put the interview out of my mind because after it comes … Cancún! IP and I enjoy our favorite resort once again, basking in the glowing warm glow of the Caribbean sun and loving every minute of it. I turn 33 and get to see Paul Simon perform on my birthday proper—an awesome gift if there ever was one. An even bigger gift: the weekend before my birthday, I’m told that I’ve been offered the job at venerable institution. I’m so happy that I break down crying at Rosslyn Metro.

June 2011: And then June arrived. June was incredibly angst-y for me; while my interview process went quickly, my offer process dragged. I provided all the information that I could, but I could not get the HR person assigned to me to budge on getting me an offer letter. What made this worse was that I had a work trip planned for July—I needed to bow out as soon as possible. Halfway through the month, the offer finally arrived. It was actually a tough decision—do I leave the work friends that I know, abandon a work trip that I enjoy, to go work for an org that had a hard time putting together an offer letter for me? Is that just a fluke of HR? What kind of a situation would I be walking into? It’s the type of job I want to do, but what will it be like? And what kind of ties would I be possibly rending by walking away from the work trip? My worry about rending ties proved to be for naught—everyone was supremely happy for me and told me not to worry about the trip, that these things can’t be timed. Leaving my work friends at the end of the month was incredibly difficult. I was unhappy with the work, but I loved the majority of the people I worked with. They’re a wonderfully funny and caring group that kept me laughing even when everything was going to shit. But leave them I do on the last day of the month.

July 2011: Before starting my new gig, I have a week off to myself that I try to enjoy to the fullest. I get errands done, do some shopping, and try to psych myself up for the new position. I am geeked beyond all belief to finally have a job that’s up my alley and want it to go well. The month is spent adjusting to the new routine, the new commute, the new people, and the new environment.

August 2011: Again with the adjusting. IP and I manage to get away for a few days, but not for anything relaxing. We celebrate IP’s birthday and our second wedding anniversary in style by heading to one of our favorite restaurants. It’s a relatively quiet month as far as 2011 goes.

September 2011: Same for September. But IP and I do enjoy the offerings of the National Book Festival, expanded to two days for 2011. We hear Jennifer Egan, Sarah Vowell, and Sherman Alexie, among many wonderful others, speak. Making an event out of it, we stay downtown and have a nice dinner out and a lovely brunch before the second day begins. This is a D.C. event we truly, truly love.

October 2011: Another busy month. I have one entry for October 2011, and it’s a book review. I can’t even begin to remember what was going on that month. I kept busy with work, my volunteer work, and reading.

November 2011: Here we start to see a sudden shift. Things at work get a bit shaky—venerable institution is going through changes and it’s affecting my unit. I start to notice that my team hasn’t warmed up to me; the arrival of a new person, and her immediate acceptance, is a stark contrast to the stiffness I still feel from my coworkers. It alarms me since I usually get along well with coworkers—sure, I’ve snarked about work moms talking too much about their kids, but at least they seemed to enjoy talking to me. I start to feel unsure of my place and begin to worry. At home, IP and I are as strong as ever, though, and he proves to be an amazing shoulder to lean on once again.

December 2011: That sudden shift begins to feel very dramatic when I’m assigned the worst thing in the world at work: an event. With the changes, the introduction of events to our workload (though I’m hoping they’re not permanent), and my coworkers’ stiffness, I begin to doubt that I’ll ever truly feel comfortable at my new job. The work I was hired to do has to be shifted to others so I can deal with areas that I’m not fond of and left my old place to avoid. I fret to IP. I resolve to take things as they come (and pretend I have no clue about events) and try not to stress out too much (I am succeeding somewhat). I also begin to casually peruse my D.C. jobs feed (yeah, I know … kinda sad, isn’t it?). IP and I head to Michigan for the holidays and enjoy the company of my family. My family, as always, is sympathetic to my work plight. My mom, psychic as ever, tells me she suspected as much; both my parents tell me that, should I want to find a new job, I could chalk this up as a lesson learned and just proceed with my life. Alongside IP, their support is awesome. We’re showered with gifts, plied with good food and alcohol, and have a relaxing, great time. IP and I ended the year as we love to—in each other’s arms, wishing each other a great New Year and expressing our gratitude that we get to spend 2012 together.

On New Year’s Day, I woke up to IP turning to me and saying “I love my beautiful wife.” And that right there, having his love: in the end, that’s all that really matters as I go through this uncertain professional period.

So I begin 2012 with a bit of trepidation on the career front, but there are things to look forward to: another Cancún trip is upcoming and we’re both looking for better balance in our lives. We’ll be celebrating a decade together this year—who knew? But I’m so happy we’re here. I’m training for both the Rock ‘n Roll USA Half-Marathon and the Cherry Blossom 10 Mile Run (yes, got in again!). I’m going to try to do a better job of visiting my family in 2012. I’m also going to try to not make a ton of “end of the world” jokes. But no firm promises on that front.

Onward to 2012 we go!

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

This year was another year of many, many books read—I ended the year at 58 books (including a beta read)—but my reading slowed down when I switched jobs and my commute shortened by half. I still read, but books didn’t go as quickly as they used to. Not that that’s an argument to stay at a job you dislike, the ability to read more books. Or is it? Hmm … I started out strong with reviewing, too, but that dropped off after the drama of getting a new job began and I started a new literary project. I’m hoping to be a bit more disciplined about it in 2012 as I love to write book reviews.

With 58 books read, I matched 2010’s all-time high. Not that I was trying to beat it—my focus is on quality reads, not quantity read. I ended up reading 19,435 pages, and I have to say that the majority of those pages were pretty damn good—I read a lot of great books in 2011. I’m hoping for more of the same in 2012.

Anyway, it’s time to announce the winners of the Sonnet 87 2011 Book Awards. It’s a prestigious announcement, and I’m sure all the authors below will be thrilled to know—whether they’ve hit a high with me or are on my authorial shit list—that they’re being somewhat immortalized in this post. ‘Cuz we all know my taste is book is très awesome.

Right?

Anyway:

Best Book of 2011: Next by James Hynes. Similar to last year’s winner The Grift by Ginsberg, there isn’t much to say about this book that I haven’t already said. From the Ann Arbor, Mich., focus to the hyper-paranoia of the early 2000s, this book was a mesh of past and present colliding together, leading to an ending so, well, ballsy that I have to stand back and give Mr. Hynes amazing props. With Hynes’ wit, keen observations about life in these United States post-9/11, and absolute bravery in tackling a subject (and, again, ending) that many people don’t want to think about, his book excels in many ways. Why wasn’t it noticed more, I ask myself? And then I remember: fear. But fear, ultimately, is the last thing that is lingering after you finish this powerful book. At least, in my mind that’s so. If anything, it ends on a tragic yet high note.

Worst Book of 2011: Adrenaline by Jeff Abbott. So, remember when I complained about my book club going soft (and I have now come to realize that others are agreeing with me)? Well, this is the book that prompted it. Such terrible, jarring narration. An unsympathetic hero. Attempts to pull at our heart strings using supposed love and a baby. And an ending that had me rolling my eyes and falling off of my chair in disgust. It was written to be a movie one day, and it was written to start a franchise. It’s a money-grab book, and if there’s nothing more I hate, it’s wasting my precious reading time with this garbage. Disposable indeed.

Best Non-Fiction of 2011: The Lady in the Tower: The Fall of Anne Boleyn by Alison Weir. Weir never fails to deliver when it comes to her studies on the Tudors. The Lady in the Tower was a micro-examination of Anne Boleyn’s last days as Queen of England, and the probable causes of her downfall. What I truly like about Weir is her willingness to step back and reassess claims she’s made in past books, and if one is expecting to see a damning portrayal of Queen Anne (based on Weir’s previous books), it’s not here as she digs deeper and admits, up front, that her former research was incomplete and/or biased. I like a person, especially an expert, who can admit they’re wrong—and who can write like a mo-fo (that, Ms. Weir, is a compliment, I swear). I continue to enjoy Weir tremendously.

Best Fiction of 2011: Empire Falls by Richard Russo. I said it at the beginning of 2011—Russo’s work is sublime and for a while it had the chance to work it as the Best Book of 2011. The small town atmosphere—claustrophobic but still beloved by the characters that inhabited it—combined with a world-weary everyman worked together to produce a touching, enraging, hilarious and tragic story all at once. I have yet to read more of Russo’s work, but I’m hoping to delve into his repertoire in 2012.

Worst Non-Fiction of 2011: Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife by Mary Roach. I’d heard much about Roach’s popular science writing, and her approach to either debunking or explaining the histories behind things such as cadavers, Mars, and, in this case, ghosts. I chose Spook because I have an interest in ghosts—I don’t believe in them, but I do like to read about them. I fully expected Roach to debunk, but not be so … bitchy about it. There, I said it. Unless she was able to make a joke about what she was discussing, the overall tone of the book was hostile and off-putting. I’m not saying she should’ve indulged those she encountered—after all, again, she’s trying to debunk everything—but her approach was so dismissive that it got to the point of arrogance, as if she were asking herself why she was there. And I was asking myself the same thing: why tackle it if it’s going to be all ridicule, all the time, in an abrasive tone that got tiresome for the reader? You can be funny without being over-the-top mean. The laughs Roach caused were too few and far between for me to enjoy this book—I’m not sure I’ll be tackling anything else by her.

Worst Fiction of 2011: The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. I just don’t get the appeal. The writing is subpar, the plot is predictable, and the idea that people like to see children in danger—but not in for-real danger, heavens, no!—makes me raise an eyebrow. The characters were flat, and one wonders what they see in each other. The totalitarian regime was somewhat cartoonish—I half expected President Skroob to appear. All in all, not for me. I understand that others like it, and it is what it is, but please stop saying that something that’s popular ought to receive literary recognition. Just because it sells doesn’t mean it’s deserving of a Pulitzer.

Don Quixote Award of 2011: The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers by John Gardner. I don’t have much to say about this one other than: I started it with the best of intentions (as a way to get myself to think about writing before tackling the actual writing), but halfway through it lost me. Whether it was the author’s somewhat snobbish attitude or the fact that it felt outdated in 2011, I don’t know. But it’s not getting finished.

Best Discovery of 2011: Sherman Alexie. Of course, I’ve only read one of Alexie’s books (The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian), but combined with his simply awesome talk at the 2011 National Book Festival, I’m on board for more Alexie in the near future. His ability to talk about the duality of being a minority is something that I’ve been searching for for a long time. I am so frustrated that his excellent talk is still not available on the National Book Festival’s website—was it because he swore like crazy? The blue humor? Is it because it needed to be heavily edited? Whatever the case, I’m hoping to revisit it (please, LoC?) soon. And get my hands on War Dances.

So that’s it in a nutshell—the best and worst of books in 2011 at Sonnet 87. Onto 2012, where I hope to read quite a few good books and, for your entertainment, a few bad ones in which I can rant and rave like the lunatic that I am (you know you love me!). Like last year, there are so many good books that I can’t mention in this entry. However, I will do the bold, in red, double asterisk if you’re looking for book recommendations.

Onto the final book list of 2011:

Finished:

1) Kaaterskill Falls by Allegra Goodman **
2) Gunn’s Golden Rules: Life’s Little Lessons for Making It Work by Tim Gunn and Ada Calhoun
3) Beneath the Lion’s Gaze: A Novel by Maaza Mengiste **
4) Empress Orchid by Anchee Min
5) Destiny and Desire: A Novel by Carlos Fuentes; Translated by Edith Grossman **
6) The Brief History of the Dead by Kevin Brockmeier
7) Johannes Cabal the Necromancer by Jonathan L. Howard
8) Bel Canto by Ann Patchett **
9) The Lady in the Tower: The Fall of Anne Boleyn by Alison Weir **
10) Freedom by Jonathan Franzen **
11) The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly
12) Empire Falls by Richard Russo **
13) Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife by Mary Roach
14) The Feast of Love by Charles Baxter
15) The Weird Sisters by Eleanor Brown
16) The Discomfort Zone by Jonathan Franzen
17) The Other Side of the Island by Allegra Goodman
18) Between Parent and Child by Dr. Haim G. Ginott **
19) A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith **
20) The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman
21) The Lady Elizabeth by Alison Weir
22) Unfamiliar Fishes by Sarah Vowell
23) Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later by Francine Pascal
24) A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan **
25) One of Our Thursdays Is Missing by Jasper Fforde **
26) Different Seasons by Stephen King **
27) Unpublished Novel
28) Unpublished Novel
29) The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood
30) Carrie by Stephen King **
31) Next by James Hynes **
32) One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn **
33) The Tragedy of Arthur by Arthur Phillips **
34) In Cold Blood by Truman Capote
35) Unpublished Novel
36) Adrenaline by Jeff Abbott
37) Brief Interviews with Hideous Men by David Foster Wallace **
38) The Tiger’s Wife by Téa Obreht **
39) Alcestis by Katharine Beutner
40) Unpublished Biography
41) Before I Go to Sleep by S.J. Watson
42) Matterhorn: A Novel of the Vietnam War by Karl Marlantes **
43) Published Novel by My College Roommate (No, I’m not joking; no, I won’t reveal who it is)
44) The Borrower by Rebecca Makkai
45) The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson **
46) Unpublished Novel
47) The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie **
48) The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
49) The Shakespeare Thefts: In Search of the First Folios by Eric Rasmussen **
50) Sad Monsters: Growling on the Outside, Crying on the Inside by Frank Lesser **
51) A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens **
52) The Woman in Black: A Ghost Story by Susan Hill
53) Unpublished Novel
54) Camp Nine: A Novel by Vivienne Schiffer
55) The Keep by Jennifer Egan **
56) The Walking Dead: Compendium One by Robert Kirkman **
57) Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides **

Re-read:

1) Threads by Nell Gavin **

Currently Reading:

1) The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers by John Gardner

Waiting To Be Read (Already Purchased, Got as Gifts, Borrowed from My Husband or Otherwise Accessible without the Use of Funds, But Not an Assurance That I Will Read These Before I Buy More Books):

Empty until the 2012 reading begins!

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

My Name Is NOT "Hey, Baby!" via Stop Street Harassment

Remember that Wednesday not too long ago? When it poured like crazy? According to the Capital Weather Gang, it was a record-breaking rain storm. If you’re as sick of precipitation as I am, the rain was unwelcome and made me quite grumpy. And you guys know me: I’m quite the grump even if it were to be 70 and sunny in mid-July (around here?  Hah!).

Anyway, I tried to avoid the rain as best I could that day. IP and I took the bus in the morning (and were soaked in the process nonetheless thanks to Metrobus’ stellar track record of never showing up on time, especially in a rain storm). My work is kind enough to provide a shuttle, so I took that instead of walking. On the way home I again took the shuttle and waited for the bus—while my pant legs were going to be soaked anyway, I’d rather spend five minutes in the rain instead of 20.

So on said way home, I boarded the bus and sat in an empty seat with the row all to myself. Once comfortably ensconced, I took out my iPhone and proceeded to check email, Facebook, Twitter, all that good stuff. It was then that I heard a clearing of the throat, followed by a question.

“Excuse me, what time is it?”

I glanced up briefly to see a guy giving me his most winning smile, trying to be as charming as all get out. Raising an eyebrow, I responded with 6:27 p.m., the guy thanked me, and I then turned back to my iPhone. The ride is short, but I like to keep busy.

“Do you speak Spanish?”

I hesitated, looking up again. I hate this question, especially coming from men around my age or younger. It’s almost always a way to begin hitting on you and it rarely bodes well. You can tell by the looks they give you and the way they try to lower their voices by several octaves (never quite accomplishing the low voice of my beloved IP, by the way) when asking the question. In my experience (remember, anecdotal here), they believe that speaking Spanish creates an affinity (it does not) and establishes a cultural norm that makes it okay to proceed to say what they want (again, it does not). For some reason, though (fucking stupid politeness ingrained by society), I answered that yes, I spoke Spanish. D’oh.

The guy then proceeded to ask me all kinds of questions: Did I ride the bus often? (No.) Did I live in Silver Spring? (I’m not telling you where I live.) How long had I been in the States? (Since I was a kid.) Internally rolling my eyes, I asked the same questions back, not really listening to the answers.

“So you don’t take the bus?” he asked again.

I sighed, shaking my head, then not-so-subtly brought up my left hand to flash my emerald engagement ring and Sholdt Twisp wedding band (not that being married should matter—he shouldn’t be harassing me, period, but it is a way of showing that I’m definitely not interested). He eyed them for a second, but was undeterred. “My husband and I walk a lot,” I answered, also undeterred.

“Oh. That’s why you have such a beautiful body,” he commented, giving me the slimiest smile I’ve seen in a good while.

I gave him a look, one that I hope conveyed disgust and suspicion and absolute derision for his clumsy attempts at trying to charm me. Newsflash, buddy—I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks about my looks. That has never been the way to get to know me, and those kinds of tactics get you nowhere. I’ve yet to see a woman who was told she had a bangin’ bod fall helplessly into the arms of her seducer. As women, we’re treated like objects all the time—you think by sexualizing yet again me you’re doing me a favor or offering me a compliment? Oh no, no, no.

The biggest thing that was attractive about IP when we first started dating? He listened to me. He didn’t immediately dive in with stupid compliments, try to touch me without my say-so, and he didn’t presume to think that flattering me was the quickest way into my pants. One of the best early conversations we had was about books and analyzing them—this guy could never hope to match that in a million years.

It was then that the bus arrived at my stop. For a split second, I debated not getting off there—what if he followed me?—but I decided to take the long way out (I usually sit toward the back to make a quick exit through the second door) and walk by the driver. If he followed, I’d turn to the driver and let him know the guy was trouble (after all, he’d told me where he lived, so why was he  getting off at this stop?). I bolted out of my seat, still giving him a dirty look, not returning his good-bye.

My only regret was not saying anything. Like, “What if some guy said that to your mom or sister?” or “You have no right to say that to me!” or “That is not a compliment nor flattering, ass.” I know that could’ve caused more trouble, though, and I was so absolutely disgusted that I was shocked into silence. I mean, who says shit like that!?

I rushed home, furious with the guy and with myself. Jesus H. Christ, way to make a shitty day shittier.

The addendum to this story: On Sunday, when returning home after my race, IP and I were offloaded at Takoma thanks to track work on the Red line. While we waited for the next train (supposedly seven minutes away—it was more like 15), I noticed a guy who had also been offloaded watching us. While we waited, IP warmed my face with his hands, pulled me close, and we were generally all lovey-dovey—not in a terrible PDA way, but in our snarky, sarcastic, playful kind of way. Throughout this, the dude watching us kept on circling closer and closer, until he was nearby us when the train came. I wasn’t sure that he was the guy from the bus, but he sure did look like him.

The train came, we boarded. When we got off at our station, I caught the guy looking at us again. It was then that I thought, yeah, this was the guy, and he was definitely trying to get me to notice him. To what effect, though? Strike up a conversation with IP and me? I was disgusted by him when I last saw him on the bus. It’s not like I hadn’t told IP about this guy—I didn’t point him out at the time because I wasn’t sure what the deal was, but when I told IP later, IP cheerfully said he would’ve offered to beat him up for me. So that wouldn’t have gone well for him at all.

Here’s hoping I don’t see him again.

And a note to guys who make these horrible comments to women thinking they’ll get somewhere: this doesn’t work. Ever. It’s insulting and demeaning. We’re not here for your entertainment or pleasure, and we’re not weaklings who swoon at being told we’re good looking. We’re people and we deserve respect. No forced conversation. No comments on our looks. Nothing. If it’s clear we don’t want to engage, leave us the hell alone. These types of comments are unwelcome and that makes it harassment.

STOP.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Anyway, I say “we” not because I am wonderfully royal (though I am), but because IP accompanied me downtown. He sometimes joins me for races not only for the moral support, but also so that he can do some work while I run. And when I say work, it’s not work-work (for the most part), but projects he’s working on that are important to him. While getting up early isn’t always a treat, he gets stuff done, which helps set the tone for the rest of the day.

Getting downtown was not a problem—once in D.C., IP and I headed to his office so that I could do some last-minute race preparations before jogging down to Freedom Plaza. (An aside: you know what’s a bonus of having your husband’s office near race starts? Bag checks without the line!) Once at Freedom Plaza, I kind of wandered a bit, trying to find a registration tent because—gasp!—my race swag bag had not contained any jingle bells. I ask you this: How is one supposed to jingle all way without the aid of jingle bells? Is the purpose of jingling all the way not defeated by this oversight? Alas, I wasn’t able to find the reg tent, so I was jingle-less. Sadness.

Thanks to the jog from IP’s office to Freedom Plaza I was pretty warmed up by the time I got to the race start. And with a few minutes to go to the race, the announcer announced … that there was to be a 10- to 15-minute delay for the race start. Blah. Wasn’t I just saying last week that a race delay could be one of the worst things to happen to me? But no matter in this case, I kind of just went with the flow. The race started 25 minutes after 9am, so it wasn’t the longest delay. And the race organizers were super apologetic. However, my toes were frozen.

Which wasn’t the worst thing in the world, believe it or not! Remember these boots I wanted last year?

Eddie Bauer Tall Equestrian Boots

Well, I have them. And I can’t wear them because they apparently tear up the skin on my ankle bones and chafe my heels and toes. So the middle toe on my right foot is in agony, and I was seriously worried about a) my footfall being so painful that I couldn’t run and 2) the sides of my shoes hitting the scabs on my ankles and causing even more pain. But by the time the race started? The benefits of my warm up were gone and I couldn’t feel my feet. That meant that it took about two miles to shake off the cold, but it also meant that I couldn’t feel any of the pain associated with my various foot lesions. And they didn’t bother me the entire race.

Yay for numbness!

The race itself went by very fast (makes sense, since I got a course PR!) and followed the St. Patrick’s Day 8K course. I always enjoy this course—it’s flat, fast and just seems to slip away. The beginnings of the race were a bit tough; I was going fast, but my legs felt really still (not as wonderful a feeling as my cold feet) and the cold air was really catching in my chest. I forced myself to slow down a bit, measure the breaths I took, and it was like I was out for a run in Michigan again. If there’s one thing I do actually enjoy, it’s running in the cold, but you first have to adjust to it in order to have fun with it. The rest of the course was a relative breeze, and while the cheering crowds were thin, the spirit amongst the runners was more than enough to keep anyone going. I love running in race in D.C. (as opposed to training in D.C.—everyone’s just so freakin’ happy to be there!)

(The only thing I don’t like about this course? When you can see the finish line and then … the course jogs onto 10th (I think) in order to round out the mileage. Argh! I don’t know why it drives me crazy, but it’s kind of dispiriting for me. But not enough to get me to stop running.)

I finished relatively strong. I had tried to get some water at one of the final water stops, but runners ahead of me kept on taking the cups that I was anticipating, and I am not one to stop and wait for a refill. Consequently, I felt totally parched during the last tenth of a mile—I thought for a second I might have to stop, but seeing that my RunKeeper app had stopped made me keep going.

Yes, that’s right. Almost done with the race and the app I’m using to keep track of my time and pace crapped out on me. Way to go, RunKeeper, woo!

(This is a lesson to all—try not to forget your Forerunners at home.)

Forerunner 405

But at least I finished relatively strong, even if I was motivated by sheer annoyance to finish out the race.

So, that’s the race in a nutshell. A little late, lots of fun, and validation that I’m a powerful runner even when I don’t run for more than a month. And all this despite not having any jingle bells to jingle me all the way. Woot!

(Great job, Capital Running Company! See you in March for the St. Patrick’s Day 8K!)

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Anyway. What’s up? Nothing much over here, ‘cept …

• For 2012, the husband and I are all set for our first vacation of year. And we’re going back to Cancun. Oh hell, yeah. Our resort of choice, awesome as they are, held a sale that consisted of resort credits (which was part of this year’s package—it works out splendidly) and up to 20 percent off the price of some rooms. We ended up buying an extra day, we were so thrilled with the price. And? Direct flights both ways. That is priceless, I tell you.
• I’ve once again thrown in my hat for the 2012 Cherry Blossom 10 Mile Run. Here’s hoping I’m able to get in—it’d be great to have Cherry Blossom as a running goal in addition to the Rock ‘n Roll USA Half-Marathon. Both events will not only force me to train, but I might be a few pounds lighter for Cancun thanks to training. Superficial? Yes, but who wants to feel gunky in a bathing suit?

And now, a random running funny

• Speaking of racing, did y’all hear about the Hot Chocolate 15K/5K debacle? Yikes! When I first got the email advertising the race in June/July, something seemed … off. As some bloggers who ran the race said, it seemed to be all about CHOCOLATE! with no details on the logistics of the race. As much as I despise and want to avoid event planning in any way, shape or form in the future, I’ll still always recognize when an event is poorly planned—and this seemed to have all the ingredients from the get go. So even though they kept on sending me emails (CHOCOLATE! FREE JACKET!), I decided I’d be better off avoiding the race. Boy, am I glad I did. Me + 1 Hour Waiting + Occasionally Nervous Stomach + No Bathrooms = BAD SITUATION. Let’s not even talk about the race course itself or the logistics of fitting 20,000 people at National Harbor. Hell, even getting to the National Harbor would’ve been a task and a half for yours truly. Can I mention how grateful I am that the Jingle Bell All the Way event is now at Freedom Plaza?

And with that note, my randomness will cease. (And I now realize that most of this randomness was brought to you by running.)

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Well, yeah. I signed up for the Rock ‘n Roll USA Half-Marathon in March.

Completely logical, eh, to train for a long-distance race when I don’t even like training in the area, right?

I, as you may have noticed by now, am not logical.

That aside, part of it was motivation from my new coworkers—a lot of them are runners, and the idea of having someone expecting me to show up on race day was a huge factor. Another part of it was honestly, truly wanting to run again. I do love it for its own sake—once I get started, I don’t find it to be a chore or boring. I’ve been running more lately (with a group on occasion), and am also signed up for December’s Jingle All the Way (now an 8K—I think it follows the course of the St. Patrick’s Day 8K). Now that I’m in a writing job, and would like to write creatively again (yes, still!), I feel like I could use that time to do what I did in college: write in my head. So here’s hoping the time spent training improves my running and contributes positively toward my writing endeavors.

I’m also going to give Cherry Blossom a shot again. Hopefully my luck will hold and I’ll get into the lottery. I have to say, I really love the 10-mile distance. If I had more motivation, I would’ve done the Hot Chocolate 15K, but I admit that the lack of information on their website scared me. Getting down to the National Harbor area would be difficult for me on a weekend, especially if they don’t have a deal with Metro to open early.

But here’s the real kicker. While watching all the New York City Marathon results come in on November 6, I felt a strange voice in my head. The strange voice in my head said, “Hey, I want to do that again!”

To which I said, “What the what?”

“Yeah! Remember how fun it was? Go back and read your race report on your blog.”

So I did, and lo and behold, I’ve promised the strange voice in my head that I will go in for the 2012 ING New York City Marathon. Training for a marathon, in D.C., in the summer? I must be insane. But I want to do it.

So, in order to do all this, I’ll just have to suck it up when it comes to running in D.C. I guess I’ll make it work somehow.

Getting new running shoes would be a good start …

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

It was probably a detriment to The Hunger Games that I started reading the first book in the trilogy shortly after finishing The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. Because if we’re talking kids in peril, struggling to find a way to survive in a world where the odds are stacked against them? Sherman Alexie wins, hands down. I don’t mean to knock Suzanne Collins or her fans here, but the books are what they are, and the emotional resonance of Alexie’s work is far greater.

While The Hunger Games is able to tap into the idea of putting kids in danger, it’s done on a mythological/dystopian level. It’s fantasy, and it’s the kind of fantasy that doesn’t allow a reader to experience the true fear of possibly losing a child—or oneself—to forces outside of anyone’s control. Read Alexie’s National Book Award winner, though, and you’re confronted with a reality that happens every day on Native American reservations and other poor enclaves across the country. And you’re not even confronted with it full force—in his excellent talk at the National Book Festival this year, Alexie said that he’d deliberately used fiction as a way to make the book more optimistic as opposed to following the exact script of his life (in the form of a true autobiography) because the end result would have been too depressing. Too disturbing. Too sad.

Yet what he’s given us touches reality closely, and for that reason alone it should be read. Every kid should read this in order to understand the realities that others face all over the country, and that sometimes rebellion is as simple—and as scary—as going to a new school 22 miles away, where you won’t be using your mother’s old textbook in class.

Part-Time is the story of Arnold Spirit Jr., a high school freshmen who is smart, bullied and hoping to make something of himself even when hope is in short abundance. Transferring from the high school on the Spokane Indian Reservation in Wellpinit, Washington, to Reardan High, the book chronicles Arnold’s freshman year. In the process of moving to Reardan High, Arnold finds himself more bullied than ever on the rez, lost without his best friend, Rowdy. Rowdy, like most others on the rez, sees Arnold’s desire for a better education at Reardan as a betrayal, and makes him pay for it as much as possible.

In its straightforward prose, Part-Time seems deceptively simple, but it masks a profundity that made me choke back laughter and stifle sobs on the Metro. Capturing the tough negotiation of living in two worlds, Arnold endures losses and experiences triumphs throughout the year, and they are all tinged with the odd mixture of guilt, confusion and happiness that comes from moving ahead while not wanting to leave everyone else behind. Along with Alexie’s stellar prose is Ellen Forney’s accompanying art, illustrating the funny, painful and matter-of-fact moments in Arnold’s life—all from Arnold’s perspective, as he’s a budding cartoonist.

The second-most challenged book of 2010 according to the ALA, Part-Time doesn’t shy away from the difficult nature of Arnold’s life, or the fact that he’s a teenage boy—he will swear, he will make bad choices, he will masturbate, he will lose important people, he will be brutally honest about his poverty, he will struggle, and he will do it all with a sort of gallows humor that some will probably find inappropriate. Yet he’s just trying to survive, and he’s trying to do it in the best way he can. How can that be challenged, hidden? Baffled, party of one, right here. (Then again, I’m baffled by censorship on a regular basis.)

The best part about Part-Time? Besides seeing Arnold grow, laughing and crying with him? It’s that the book makes you think. For me, it was pondering the idea of being a part-time anything. You can argue that most kids are a part-time something, but I’ll go out on a limb and say that being a part-time minority is one of the toughest, most heart-wrenching things a kid can go through without the proper guidance to negotiate that path. My parents, Cthulhu bless ‘em, couldn’t help me when it came to dealing with being the sole minority in an all-white school. They gave me love and strength, but even that could fail in the face of the pure venom that emerged from Saline’s unholy hallways. I did my best to fit in, and that in turn caused my parents to wonder why I was changing. Like Arnold in Part-Time, I felt like I was betraying my culture, but I had to do what I could to survive. I didn’t do it to hurt anyone. Arnold is arguably more successful at negotiating an all-white high school than I was; he’s a good athlete who is willing to fight, while I was an overweight kid who was afraid to challenge anyone.

But Alexie’s given me the key word—part-time—in which I can continue to explore my own thoughts on identity. Because it doesn’t end as a kid: follow Alexie’s tweets, and it’s clear that the conflict never stops. Hell, Sonnet 87 has seen many an identity musing, particularly this one.

Alexie also highlights the topic of extreme poverty with an honesty that needs to be read far and wide. This is the kind poverty where you have to walk 22 miles to school because there’s no gas money and you can’t get a ride. The kind of poverty where you go to bed hungry on a regular basis. The kind of poverty that leads to depression and alcoholism, which can take lives since, again, hope seems as rare as the almighty dollar. It’s a telling commentary on how this country fails kids on reservations, in inner cities, in rural communities, seen through the eyes of 14-year-old kid who just wants the same shot as everyone else.

The reality that Arnold faces is jarring, disconcerting, and frightening; you never want to imagine a kid going through that, but it’s a fact of life. Again, this is the type of book that should be read by everyone because, chances are, you’re reading about someone not like you. You’re reading something that could happen and that’s something you can learn from. You’re reading, in some way, the life that someone’s living, right now. It helps you understand the diversity of this nation, it helps you understand different perspectives, it helps you understand that not everyone can do what you’ve done quite so easily. You’re doing what Arnold does: challenging yourself with something hard so that, ultimately, you can grow.

A definite recommend. (And wow, look! A post for October!)

Onto the book list:

Finished:

1) Kaaterskill Falls by Allegra Goodman
2) Gunn’s Golden Rules: Life’s Little Lessons for Making It Work by Tim Gunn and Ada Calhoun
3) Beneath the Lion’s Gaze: A Novel by Maaza Mengiste
4) Empress Orchid by Anchee Min
5) Destiny and Desire: A Novel by Carlos Fuentes; Translated by Edith Grossman
6) The Brief History of the Dead by Kevin Brockmeier
7) Johannes Cabal the Necromancer by Jonathan L. Howard
8) Bel Canto by Ann Patchett
9) The Lady in the Tower: The Fall of Anne Boleyn by Alison Weir
10) Freedom by Jonathan Franzen
11) The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly
12) Empire Falls by Richard Russo
13) Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife by Mary Roach
14) The Feast of Love by Charles Baxter
15) The Weird Sisters by Eleanor Brown
16) The Discomfort Zone by Jonathan Franzen
17) The Other Side of the Island by Allegra Goodman
18) Between Parent and Child by Dr. Haim G. Ginott
19) A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
20) The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman
21) The Lady Elizabeth by Alison Weir
22) Unfamiliar Fishes by Sarah Vowell
23) Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later by Francine Pascal
24) A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan
25) One of Our Thursdays Is Missing by Jasper Fforde
26) Different Seasons by Stephen King
27) Unpublished Novel
28) Unpublished Novel
29) The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood
30) Carrie by Stephen King
31) Next by James Hynes
32) One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn
33) The Tragedy of Arthur by Arthur Phillips
34) In Cold Blood by Truman Capote
35) Unpublished Novel
36) Adrenaline by Jeff Abbott
37) Brief Interviews with Hideous Men by David Foster Wallace
38) The Tiger’s Wife by Téa Obreht
39) Alcestis by Katharine Beutner
40) Unpublished Biography
41) Before I Go to Sleep by S.J. Watson
42) Matterhorn: A Novel of the Vietnam War by Karl Marlantes
43) Published Novel by My College Roommate (No, I’m not joking; no, I won’t reveal who it is)
44) The Borrower by Rebecca Makkai
45) The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson
46) Unpublished Novel
47) The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie
48) The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

Re-read:

1) Threads by Nell Gavin

Currently Reading:

1) The Shakespeare Thefts: In Search of the First Folios by Eric Rasmussen

Waiting To Be Read (Already Purchased, Got as Gifts, Borrowed from My Husband or Otherwise Accessible without the Use of Funds, But Not an Assurance That I Will Read These Before I Buy More Books):

1) Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
2) Briar Rose by Jane Yolen
3) Paradise Park by Allegra Goodman
4) The Unforgiving Minute: A Soldier’s Education by Craig M. Mullaney
5) Saints at the River by Ron Rash
6) Lowboy by John Wray
7) A Friend of the Family by Lauren Grodstein
8) State of Wonder by Ann Patchett
9) In Search of the Rose Notes by Emily Arsenault
10) The Hand That First Held Mine by Maggie O’Farrell
11) Moonwalking with Einstein: The Art and Science of Remembering Everything by Joshua Foer

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

So yes, I return with a post about the National Book Festival. An event which is, like, ZOMG! (Does that mean“Zombies! Oh my god!”?) In its 11-year history, I’ve been in D.C. for six of them and have only attended two. That, my friends, is pathetic. I confess, though: I thought it was something that was mainly a book sales event instead of an author event. How wrong I was, and I’m happy to be proven wrong in this instance.

This year, the festival expanded to two days for the first time in its history. When the author schedule hadn’t been released yet, I pondered whether it was a good idea to stay downtown on Saturday night in order to have easy access to the festival on Sunday afternoon. I debated: after all, riding on Metro during the weekend sucks, but was it really worth $150+ dollars to stay downtown? We didn’t even know who would be speaking on day two—what if it was just the dregs? After a bit of conflict, I said fuck it and decided to book the stay. After all, IP and I don’t treat ourselves enough to quick getaways, and even if this one was just a Metro ride away, it would still be fun. There’s value, I think, in listening to authors of all stripes speak because they may discuss interesting processes and the stories behind their stories. I said we’d go for it and IP agreed.

It turned out to be a wonderful idea. Day two was just as strong, if not stronger, than day one. If the book festival is two days long again, I’m booking a room as soon as they announce it.

IP and I left our apartment at 8am on Saturday and didn’t return until nearly 7pm on Sunday. In between, we saw Toni Morrison, Jennifer Egan, Sarah Vowell, Edmund Morris, Sherman Alexie (who is goddamn hilarious and insightful—why didn’t anyone ever mention this man to me before!?), Joshua Foer, John Milliken Thompson, Siddhartha Mukherjee and David McCullough speak. Jennifer Egan and Sarah Vowell signed books for us, and we ran into an Internet friend while there (details? That I cannot give).

We had dinner (uh, where’s the Cap City at the Postal Museum? This is what happens when you’re never in that area), had a few drinks at our hotel bar, and slept in a nice king-size bed (a size we’ll be buying shortly). We chatted animatedly about books and the talks and how inspiring we found it all. We looked about us and it was heartening to see so many people in love with books. We applauded when the authors championed readers and learning and teaching. We laughed at their jokes, at their swearing (boy, were the authors potty-mouths this year—we loved it!), at their self-deprecation which made them seem pretty damn modest and human. We felt giddy with the rush of it all.

And then we went home, with a list of books to read and new authors to enjoy. We went home, and I have the hope that I won’t let this year’s inspiration wane as I try my best to pick up my pen and finally write.

We’ll see.

But a note to the Library of Congress: I love you so for putting on this event.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

In my searches, I found Katharine Beutner’s Aclestis, which is billed as a reimagining of the Greek myth of the same name: a loving and devoted wife, Alcestis gave her life for her husband’s, spending three days in the underworld before Heracles came to wrestle Death for her. I confess I was not familiar with the myth, but I had hoped it was a subversive reimagining of a silent and idealized figure in mythology, much like Lavinia was. While Beutner definitely does reimagine who Alcestis was, she does not match Le Guin in transfixing us with a heroine who is fully developed. So, as with any book getting a not-so-good review: spoilers ahead!

Alcestis’ early life is marked by death: her mother died giving birth to her, and the book describes an infant who seems to be greedily sucking in the air in the birth/death chamber. It marks her further when her adored older sister, Hippothoe, dies young. An unloved daughter of Pelias, granddaughter to Poseidon, Alcestis is nonetheless alone, unremarkable in most ways. She has a stubborn streak that I suppose is presented to challenge the idea that she was meek and loyal to whatever man happened to own her at the moment, but we never truly see where Alcestis gets her fire. What is it that truly sets her apart in Achaean society? She’s practical, to a fault, but that’s not the mark of an interesting character. As she grows, she begins to acquiesce more and more to her prescribed role and doesn’t seem to loathe it; she suffers it, but doesn’t seem truly unhappy.

Married to Admetus after he meets her father’s challenge of driving a chariot led by a boar and a lion (helped by Apollo, natch), Alcestis seems mildly bored with her life as a wife. Even her apparent sadness at Admetus’ affair with Apollo seems tempered and too even-keeled; she seems to shrug off everything. When Hermes comes to a feast that Admetus is holding in honor of Artemis and summons Admetus to death, Alcestis takes his place only to avoid a lifeas the widow of man who sought to push his death onto others (like his previous lover or his elderly parents). She’s not really that much of a go-getter at this point, she just wants to avoid shame.

And then she goes to the Underworld, where it truly gets wacky and the plot loses its momentum. Because even though Beutner’s prose is not earth-shaking, the story made sense up until this point (following Euripides’ play). Alcestis was not dynamic or challenging like Le Guin’s Lavinia, but I was hoping that Underworld Alcestis would be a bit more interesting. Unfortunately, that’s not the case as Beutner seems to lose steam here.

Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, develops a fascination with Alcestis . . . .which I don’t get because Alcestis is pretty damn boring. The goddess plays games with Alcestis, which Alcestis responds to with alternative exasperation and enthusiasm, also developing a fascination with Persephone that I don’t get because Persephone is manipulative and, well, apparently batshit crazy (a condition all gods suffer, from what I can tell).

Where Beutner lost me was the over-described Underworld (how many times must the arch to Hades’ palace sing when Alcestis passes through it?) and the lack of character development from both Persephone and Alcestis. These two are talking to each other in riddles the entire time, and while I’m not one to shy away from trying to interpret deeper meaning from novels, can we please get some forward momentum and some scenes where we can identify and say, “Ah, so that’s why they’re falling in love.”? But no, nothing of that. It was just cat and mouse, which is fine to begin the pursuit, but it shouldn’t be the explanation for the end result.

Alcestis was just not a strong character that grew. Even her desire to stay in the Underworld when Heracles comes to fight for her (which he doesn’t even have to do because Hades and Persephone are like, “Dudette, you’ve just gotta go”) is puzzling—beyond a tryst with Persephone, where’s the deeper meaning and relationship here? It’s all lust-driven, which would be fine if a) something deeper wasn’t implied and 2) we could see where that lust came from. It all seems hastily conceived and not very well thought out. The Underworld section needed a lot more work to be successfully subversive.

So my hankering for a strong, subversive character from mythology goes unfulfilled, but that’s okay. As I’ve said before, you win some, you lose some.

Onto the book list:

Finished:

1) Kaaterskill Falls by Allegra Goodman
2) Gunn’s Golden Rules: Life’s Little Lessons for Making It Work by Tim Gunn and Ada Calhoun
3) Beneath the Lion’s Gaze: A Novel by Maaza Mengiste
4) Empress Orchid by Anchee Min
5) Destiny and Desire: A Novel by Carlos Fuentes; Translated by Edith Grossman
6) The Brief History of the Dead by Kevin Brockmeier
7) Johannes Cabal the Necromancer by Jonathan L. Howard
8) Bel Canto by Ann Patchett
9) The Lady in the Tower: The Fall of Anne Boleyn by Alison Weir
10) Freedom by Jonathan Franzen
11) The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly
12) Empire Falls by Richard Russo
13) Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife by Mary Roach
14) The Feast of Love by Charles Baxter
15) The Weird Sisters by Eleanor Brown
16) The Discomfort Zone by Jonathan Franzen
17) The Other Side of the Island by Allegra Goodman
18) Between Parent and Child by Dr. Haim G. Ginott
19) A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
20) The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman
21) The Lady Elizabeth by Alison Weir
22) Unfamiliar Fishes by Sarah Vowell
23) Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later by Francine Pascal
24) A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan
25) One of Our Thursdays Is Missing by Jasper Fforde
26) Different Seasons by Stephen King
27) Unpublished Novel
28) Unpublished Novel
29) The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood
30) Carrie by Stephen King
31) Next by James Hynes
32) One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn
33) The Tragedy of Arthur by Arthur Phillips
34) In Cold Blood by Truman Capote
35) Unpublished Novel
36) Adrenaline by Jeff Abbott
37) Brief Interviews with Hideous Men by David Foster Wallace
38) The Tiger’s Wife by Téa Obreht
39) Alcestis by Katharine Beutner

Re-read:

1) Threads by Nell Gavin

Currently Reading:

1) Unpublished Biography

Waiting To Be Read (Already Purchased, Got as Gifts, Borrowed from My Husband or Otherwise Accessible without the Use of Funds, But Not an Assurance That I Will Read These Before I Buy More Books):

1) Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
2) Briar Rose by Jane Yolen
3) Paradise Park by Allegra Goodman
4) Matterhorn: A Novel of the Vietnam War by Karl Marlantes
5) The Unforgiving Minute: A Soldier’s Education by Craig M. Mullaney
6) Saints at the River by Ron Rash
7) Lowboy by John Wray
8) A Friend of the Family by Lauren Grodstein
9) The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
10) State of Wonder by Ann Patchett
11) In Search of the Rose Notes by Emily Arsenault
12) Published Novel by My College Roommate (No, I’m not joking; no, I won’t reveal who it is)
13) The Hand That First Held Mine by Maggie O’Farrell
14) Before I Go to Sleep by S.J. Watson

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