Confessions of a Book Hoarder

 

I’m running out of places for the books to live. They’re everywhere in my house, like some sort of word-born Tribble. They’re under my bed, living in my closet, stacked corners, boxed in the attic, on top of my dresser, and stuffed into my actual bookshelf – to the point where, to get to one book, I have to remove ten. There are books in the chest at the foot of my bed (which was meant for clothing), books in boxes in a storage closet, and books (possibly…definitely) in the linen closet. The attic flooring, honest-to-Hawthorne, has actually cracked under the weight. Now, there’s a sad patch of ceiling in my hallway that has been temporarily nailed together. With great books comes great responsibility, and the poor attic couldn’t handle the pressure.

Some might see this as a problem, even an addiction. My To Be Read pile appears to multiply at night, and if it ever were to become sentient, I’m fairly certain it’s large enough to murder me in my sleep. (Has Stephen King written about a homicidal book yet? I know all about the Evil Pie. But, surely, an evil book is much more terrifying. He could even call it Levon Red Rum. Mr. King, you’re welcome.) Yet, despite the overwhelming Book Plague of Unquantifiable Proportions, I still keep buying books. Anytime anyone asks me if I want a gift for something, I ask for books. When I don’t, eyebrows are raised and people assume I’m ill.

Recently, I brought Suzanne Palmieri’s The Witch of Belladonna Bay to read on my lunch break at work. Who needs food, when there are words? Okay, I need both, but I’m more than capable of eating and reading, just don’t mind the salad dressing I spilled on one corner. The other day, I realized that I can’t find my copy of Deanna Raybourn’s Silent in the Grave – a novel with the best opening sentence I’ve ever read. In a fit of pique, I ransacked all of my stacks, piles, and boxes – only to remember that I loaned it to a book-thieving mongrel who kept it for himself. I consoled myself with the notion that it’s a perfectly justifiable reason to buy a new copy. Right now, I’ve got my copy of Stephen King’s It on the passenger seat of my car, in case I arrive someplace early and have a few minutes to kill.

If you’re not a booklover, loving books to the point of clutter and mild hording is somewhat confusing, if not a slight bit horrifying. I’ve been advised in the past to – get this – part with some of my books, simply to make room for new ones. This is, of course, a WORLD of NO. I can’t do it. I couldn’t pick which ones I’d be okay abandoning. What if I’m struck with the sudden urge to walk down Dorothy’s Yellow Brick Road in the Wizard of Oz or visit Thornfield Hall and Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre? What if I find my version of Ted Hughes and need to re-read Sylvia Plath’s Unabridged Journals immediately? Plus, if I parted with these things, I’d lose all my margin notes. I suffered through graduate school to put them there, and by Gaiman, I will not see that suffering be in vain. (If you could see me right now, I’m doing my best dramatic Scarlett O’Hara defiant flourish.)

My name is Ali, and I’m a book hoarder. I’m addicted to books. I have a book problem. Sure, it makes vacuuming a bit of a challenge, but I reason that having to move piles of books around is good exercise. Yes, my purse usually weighs a metric ton (why carry one book, when you can carry TWO?). And, okay, fine – I once might’ve lost my cat underneath the bed, because the books ate her. Well, technically, she squeezed between the book heaps, and I had to remove them all to free her. But that was just one time. It couldn’t possibly happen again, right?

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think the cat is stuck behind some Shakespeare. Or is that a human foot?

Magic, Lost Witches, and the Divine Suzanne Palmieri

There is a lot of magic in the world. Sometimes, it comes in the form of chance – getting all green lights on the way to work, finding $20 you didn’t remember you had, or bumping into a person you’ve been thinking a lot about. You have to pay attention to see it, but it is always there – if you believe. If you’re looking for it. You’ll find it.

Sometimes, if you are very lucky, magic comes in the form of people. Person-shaped magic is, quite possibily, my favorite. Have you ever found a person who you instantly connect with, who fills your world with awesome, wonder, and beautiful things? I’m sure you have. Maybe you married him or her. Maybe you want to.

Or, maybe, she’s one of your favorite authors. And people. And friends.

I’m talking, of course, about my darling friend, Suzanne Palmieri. I met her on Twitter last year, if my addled brain is recalling the date right. I don’t remember how, exactly. We knew some of the same people. She was fun to talk to. And lo and behold, she had a book coming out (The Witch of Little Italy) and a book she co-wrote with the lovely Loretta Nyhan (I’ll Be Seeing You) following not too long after. Like all good book nerds, I bought Suzy’s book, and had I not already adored the hell out of her, that would’ve sealed the deal for me. Because being as awesome as she is – well, that’s one thing. But being as talented as she is? That’s quite another. She’s a package, an amalgamation of bold honesty, stunning flaws, and absolute wonder. She believes. She has that thing that enables people to flourish. And chances are, if you’re her people? One of her Lost Witches? She believes in you. That, my darlings, is a truly spectacular kind of magic.

Something I love about Suzy’s writing is her ability to write things that resonate. Lines and characters that crawl into your skin, make you recall something or someone from your life, and scenarios that reaffirm your own beliefs – reminding you of the importance of being truth to oneself. Of discovering potential you may have forgotten. Of the power inherent in putting yourself out there and allowing yourself to be flawed and to make mistakes. Because that, darlings, is how we learn. That is how we grow. And if anyone knows about going after your dreams, come hell or high water, it is Suzanne Palmieri.

Recently, she’s hand drawn a deck of tarot cards. (They will be for sale.) And she has a daring refrain that everyone could do with hearing: mermaids don’t drown. What does that mean? It means it is okay to scale the depths, to discover the darkness, to remember who you are and that you are capable. Because life is not always about swimming and keeping your head above water. Sometimes, it’s about looking toward the recesses to see what you might find. It’s about taking a chance and letting go – perhaps to let unexpected possibilities in.

Mermaids don’t drown. Because mermaids don’t need what everyone else does. They survive. They thrive. They are unexpected bits of magic. And I believe, as I’ll be Suzy does, that we all have that kind of potential for magic within ourselves – if we allow ourselves to entertain that very idea.

So, next week (May 13th – 13, by the by, is a lucky number, despite what you may have heard), Suzanne’s new book comes out. It is called The Witch of Belladonna Bay. And if that cover doesn’t convince you to buy it immediately, take my word for its brilliance. Discover something that might just change your world. Knowing Suzy, certainly, has changed mine.

Love, Ali (A Lost Witch, Too)

 

“Sometimes it’s the smallest secrets that hold the most hope, the most fun, the most danger.”
― Suzanne Palmieri, The Witch of Little Italy

 

“The only problem is the heart is quiet. It takes a very special kind of person to hear what the heart says. Most can’t hear it at all and they have to guess. There are a lot of people walking around just guessing.”
― Suzanne Palmieri, The Witch of Little Italy

 

“Do you love her?’ she asked him.
‘Always have,’ he said.
‘Then why in the world would you leave her alone?”
― Suzanne Palmieri, The Witch of Little Italy

A Spear of Summer Grass

“Because if we’re on the road to hell, we’re going to dance the whole damn way and give them something to talk about when we’re gone.” A Spear of Summer Grass, 334

A Spear of Summer Grass is Deanna Raybourn’s latest masterpiece. Once again, she crafts a perfect opening line – opening paragraph, truly – “Don’t believe the stories you have heard about me.” And with that single sentence, a reader wants to know what, exactly, those stories are. It is the ultimate invitation to witness a bit of chic wickedness, clothed in scarlet, circled in smoke. If Delilah Drummond offers you a drink (gin and tonic, most likely), you would gladly take it. If she levels a gun at you, you would do well to run.

Imagine a New Orleans-born Dorothy Parker, given to Paris society. Picture her in 1923, with a bob sleek enough to cut glass – and a tongue sharp enough to scar a heart. Delilah is a wild one, a woman with a backbone who does exactly what – and whom – she pleases, with no regard for society’s demands. She is, after all, “nobody’s best example” (177). However, she can handle a gun as deftly as any man, which comes in handy when, after one too many scandals, the it-girl is banished to Africa until the media circus moves on.

There she arrives, with her plain and sullen cousin Dora, to an expected world rife with expected and unexpected predators. Just as she’s stepping off the train, Delilah meets a man as formidable as Rochester and Lord Byron (mad, bad, and dangerous to know), but as wild as lions he so expertly hunts. Ryder is not one to suffer fools, and his temper is only guided by a strong sense of justice – an oddly founded morality that serves him well. Thrown together by circumstance, the two form a tenuous relationship, one predicated not strictly on a game of cat-and-mouse – but of two equal people who worship their own walls. Broken and troubled, but fierce, both possess scars – seen and unseen. Their relationship is shaded by their own difficult, tumultuous pasts – and yet, there is a mutual respect that falls between them, breathtaking as any African sunset.

Delilah takes up residence at a house belonging to her ex-stepfather, Nigel. Fairlight is full of potential, but has fallen into disrepair. Delilah and her cousin begin to set things to right, but the resistance they are met with, at turns, is palpable. Situated amid a gaggle of displaced acquaintances, including an artist and dalliance of Delilah’s (Kit), Delilah comes into her own and starts letting people in, whether or not she realizes it. Troubling as any lion, Kenya is rampant with change and a shifting political landscape, as the colony’s British rule is uncertain. Delilah quickly learns that nothing is exactly as it seems, and she must navigate its numbered dangers. True to her tenacious persona, she takes no quarter from anyone, man or beast, while waiting out her sentence.

But a landscape is often a living thing, as much a character as any person. Delilah finds herself in a love affair with Kenya and its people – but is it enough to keep her there? And, for that matter, is Ryder? A charming and dangerous man, when he murmurs, “Sin with me,” it is seduction at its best. While Delilah may be his match, she is no stranger to art of manipulation – a spider to any willing fly. Yet, as Ryder points out, some scars are visible – while others are easily hidden, like a woman who has “been holding hands with ghosts for too long” (348). Delilah might be the dazzling party girl, with a bright red mouth, but she is “dancing on broken glass” (231). What makes Delilah’s forgivable – and even likeable – is that she’s layered. She’s what is easily seen by prying eyes and flashbulbs. And yet, she is also a whole world of history that’s never truly been witnessed. Her walls are built with care and reason, perhaps with less of an eye toward keeping people out – and more as a means of self-protection.

Deanna Raybourn’s deft hand crafted a novel that is full of sharp wit, vibrant characters, and exceptional plot twists. (No, I’m not giving them away. But I will say this: Rosebud is a sled. And Han shot first.) Nestled within a dangerously beautiful country, she tackles the idea of identity, belonging, and owning who you are – and facing who you could be. This is very much a novel about finding yourself in the last place you expect. It is about burning everything to the ground and starting again, because sometimes, ashes make the most fertile soil. It may look like a wreck and a ruin at first, but every disaster is an opportunity – as Delilah certainly discovers. At one point, she muses, “You had to love someone completely to be willing to destroy them” (230). The reverse is also true: you must love someone completely to let them destroy you. But that is, truly, the only way we let anyone in, by tearing the walls down. What better place to tear those walls down than on an adventure?

It should be noted that I was lucky enough to be given an ARC of A Spear of Summer Grass by Deanna. I was not otherwise compensated or bribed in any manner, and this review was entirely my own idea. I do believe that’s enough disclaimer, before I simply tell you: you want to read this book. It is beautiful and wicked, with enough verbal calisthenics and divinely smeared red lipstick to demand that you read quicker than you thought possible. This is a book that will keep you up until the wee hours of the night, reading beneath the sheets with a flashlight. And truly, who wouldn’t want to take Ryder to bed? Or Delilah for that matter?

A Spear of Summer Grass is available April 30. Pre-order and ordering information can be found HERE.

S&S: A Few Questions and Thoughts

Okay, we need to talk about this Simon & Schuster (S&S) news. So, grab your coffee – and your rage – and come sit by me. Because I have thoughts AND questions.

Now, I realize that self-publishing in a valuable endeavor for some people. Hell, I self-pubbed a book of poetry, because I wanted to do it. I had no grand expectations of being on Oprah. I did not expect to turn into Neruda or Plath overnight. I did it, because I wanted to – not because I thought I’d take the publishing world by storm. I had certain (reasonable) expectations.

I know several authors for whom self-publishing is the right choice. They’ve carefully considered their options and jumped in with goals, expectations, and eyes wide open. These are writers who are SMART. They hired editors, people to design their covers, and beta readers out the wazoo. In short, they’re not tossing out grammatically horrendous, typo ridden nonsense, and then imploding when someone decides to play SNAKE with them. (That will always make me laugh. I am not sorry.) In fact, Denise and Trisha? They’re awesome. I’ve had the pleasure of beta reading for Trisha, and I will read her books as often as she writes them. For her, the decision to self-pub was the RIGHT one. To each, her own.

Now, S&S (through a service called Archway Publishing.) has decided to offer self-publishing packages. You pay them a certain amount of money, and they publish your book. Years ago, we would’ve called this a vanity press. With the currently publishing landscape in transition, I’m not entirely sure WHAT to call it. But it feels kind of shady.

Let’s discuss that. For fiction, the cheapest package cost $1,999. Okay, let’s assume that I’ve got two grand kicking around under my mattress. Let’s assume I have a manuscript that is a) ready and b) I don’t want to light on fire. (Hide the matches.) What is the PURPOSE of this package? Well, apparently, it’s for a writer to “share a book with family and friends.”

Um, guys? If I wanted to entertain my family and friends with my words, I’d just print something out at Kinko’s. I remember doing that — IN HIGH SCHOOL. It was called a zine. Or, hell, I’d pull a Little Women and resurrect the Pickwick Club in the attic and all of you would be forced to act out my stories. *ahem* The package seems to include quite a bit (see below), but does it really?

I…have questions. What the heck is editorial assessment? Is that the same thing as editorial service? Nope. “The Editorial Assessment is not a replacement for our editorial services. Rather, it is a preliminary diagnostic tool, examining sections of the manuscript in detail to pinpoint areas in need of improvement.  Reviewers offer examples of items that could be strengthened and give critique and commentary across a range of topics.” So, they’ll tell you what’s wrong with it, but they won’t help you fix it. I don’t know about you, but that’s what a good beta reader does. “Hey, you screwed up over here!” Or “this needs more sex!” “Why is your character speaking in German? He’s not German.” So, that’s not exactly what someone might expect it to be.

For someone who understands publishing, or who has friends to pose questions to, you’d be well aware of the difference between editorial assessment and editorial service. But what about Sally Whatshername, who knows NOTHING about publishing? Picture her, a bright young thing, with a newly polished manuscript and a dream. She sees assessment and thinks differently. She thinks, “Hey, if I fork off $2,000 dollars, S&S will publish my manuscript!”

And then she does, without understanding what goes into a successfully self-publishing career. She has no idea how to cultivate an audience base, or market, or make connections. She is that person on Twitter who goes, “BUY MY BOOK! LOOK WHO PUBLISHED IT!” And it doesn’t have quite the same impact as one might’ve hoped. Because the publisher’s name doesn’t quite mean the same thing, does it? Because once you can buy something, the value of it tends to change.

Next up, I have concerns about the “classic author support.” What’s classic about it, exactly? Is it vintage? Timeless? I’m not really certain of the diction there, but let’s assume this is a person who helps you. Indeed, the website describes it as series of people who will function as your “point of contact” to assist you during the publishing process. So, essentially, a set of publishing guidance counselors. Even after reading the description, I’m really not sure how that person supports you. Do they take your phone calls at 1:00 am, when you can no longer remember what an adverb is? Buy you a drink when you are CONVINCED that everything you’ve written is total shit? Probably not. (Your agent would though, if he/she is a good one. For prime examples, see Brooks Sherman and Janet Reid.) This point of contact changes, depending on the phase of the project, which means you will have to form quick relationships with anonymous strangers in order to complete your project. How acquainted could these people BE with your project? The time frame, from signing with the S&S service to completion is…I don’t actually know. I couldn’t find the answer to that question on their website. I would be curious to know what the turnaround time is, because those in the publishing world are well-aware of the length of time it takes to Bibbity Bobbity Boo a manuscript into a proper book. There are a lot of man hours and hard work that go into it. Things that cannot be properly accomplished in a month.

This seems like a way for a traditional publisher to cash in on the changing landscape of the publishing world. In theory, that isn’t a bad business practice. Adapt or die, as Darwin says. But this isn’t about developing a longer beak to snatch a worm. This is about making art, making literature, and publishing thoughts. There’s something to be said about adapting in a smart, reasonable fashion. Right now, a good editorial assessment might cost you $2,000 alone. A writer might be better off spending the cash on that, making the book as good as it can possibly be, and then going from there. Find an agent. Self-publish on Amazon. You get what you pay for, and while I balked at spending that amount of money for a publishing package, I’m betting that what you actually GET isn’t going to be what you’re hoping for. If fame and fortune and success all came cheap, or was available at Costco, we’d all be rich, pant-less, and frolicking the Caribbean instead of working and eating ramen noodles.

We Are Nothing but Texts

 

There are too many words unspoken, truths huddled in shadows — whole sentences flattened into pockets, unseen and untended. Sometimes, I feel like that: as if I’ve stashed things that matter, motivated by fear of what they might mean. Things, unsaid, are as meaningless as a still breeze. The lack of movement wins, existing without an inkling otherwise. You can conjugate the same verb in three different languages, without being able to account, or predict, how it feels on your tongue. Perhaps that’s always been the problem with action words: they are unpredictable, like fire or thunderstorms. But I think that there’s only one way to take chances, only one way to be properly exposed — that’s completely and fully.

Naked, from the verbs down. Words, past their accepted meaning, pushed beyond their dark outlines, yielding to action. A confession, a spilling of secrets.

I want, I love, I miss…

If words are swallowed, spat out, or offered — they should be accompanied by consequence. A poem may just be a heap of words, infused with meanings both real and imagined — but it means next to nothing without a reader. Without someone to trace the lines with an hand, steady or unsteady. Without someone to speak the words, perfectly or imperfectly.

We, all of us, are nothing but texts — poetry lingering in a smile, desire cached in a laugh, and hope dancing in a bare gesture.

All of us are looking to be cracked open wide, picked up, and devoured.

Don’t you dare leave that book on the shelf, darling. You never know what you might find.

Card-Carrying Member of the Geek Squad: A Bit on LOCKE AND KEY

 

Growing up with brothers, I wasn’t your typical girl. I’d play with My Little Ponies one minute, then GI Joes the next. I watched the Smurfs AND climbed trees. Between the ages of seven and ten, I was completely obsessed with musicals and the X-Men. I had the trading cards. I read the comic books. I even invented my own character (I believe I shared this silly tidbit before). In short, I was a pint-size, no holds barred, card-carrying member of the Geek Squad.

There was this little convenience store/hardware store/video store (seriously). The owner also tried to push EVERYONE to buy lotto tickets, even going so far to tape a GIANT handwritten sign onto his sweater vest. Try to keep a straight face while checking out, and you CAN’T. It’s physically impossible.

Anyway, there two distinctly awesome things about that store. 1) There were the only place that sold PURPLE (grape flavored!) gummy fish. You probably call them Swedish Fish. And 2) tucked in the corner, there was a giant spinning rack of comics. Each time I went in with my mother, I was allowed to pick out ONE. It was like trying to select a single star from the sky (a sky made of AWESOME), but I managed. (It should come as no surprise that I was also BATGIRL for Halloween, once. )

Somewhere along the line, though, I lost my love for comic books. I don’t know why. Maybe it was when the killed off Superman. I don’t know. But I just…stopped reading them. Then the convenience store closed (it’s now a chain store, which is great – but less like some secret treasure, a distant cousin to the Wardrobe of Narnia, where you could discover untold awesomeness – like a New Kids on the Block lunch box, or possibly radioactive glitter, or freakin’ UNICO and the Magic Pony movies). The one local comic shop my brother frequented has also closed, reopening somewhere beyond an hour’s drive.

Up until last year, I hadn’t read a comic book in…roughly sixteen years. It wasn’t until Locke and Key caught my attention (thanks in no small part due to Twitter) that I read another comic. Of course, the technical term is probably graphic novel, but I don’t care what you call it – L&K? Is wonderful.

For those who don’t know the basic premise, it’s this: after a gruesome murder, a family (a parent and three kids) returns to their father’s childhood home (Key House) – in Lovecraft (nod to HP) New England. Key House is full of surprises, monsters, and (yes) KEYS (you can buy them!). The keys each do different, sometimes terrifying things. There’s also a very creepy music box that I secretly want to own, although I suspect it would give me nightmares (like Poltergeist did, after that bit with the tree crashing through the window – and the CLOWN)

Each story is so very intriguing, with so many twists and surprises. I won’t discuss them, because I don’t want to spoil. But suffice to say, I have exclaimed, “Oh my god – what? No! Really?” at least a dozen times. A couple of days ago, I finished reading KEYS TO THE KINGDOM, and the end of it had such an awesome, “HOLY FRAKKIN’ HELL” moment. It was great.

Written by Joe Hill, whose novel heart-shaped box is wonderfully scary, you will love the Locke kids, who get in and out of trouble at regular intervals. There are times where you will shout at the book, because you KNOW that danger’s right there – but dramatic irony reigns supreme. LOCKE AND KEY will enthrall you, terrify you, make you laugh, and keep you up reading into the wee hours of the morning (I promise).

The series is illustrated by Gabriel Rodrigeuez who brings the terrors of the Locke family to life with a deft hand. Few people could render nightmares so expertly, a villain’s smile so perfectly wicked, or a kid’s hopeful curiosity so lovingly. In his hands, Key House is an inviting, but scary place, perfect for exploration and adventure, if it weren’t for the evil shadows, animal attacks, and that well. (A huge part of me wants someone to build Key House. I would love to be able to wander through the halls.)

LOCKE AND KEY made me love comics again. I’ve got a stack of SANDMAN to read, and I have the graphic novel version of THE LAST UNICORN. I’m still the girl who invented her own X-Men character, who wanted to be a superhero, and who still climbs trees whenever the opportunity presents itself. Reading comics is like returning home, and you thank Joe Hill and Gabe Rodrigeuz for that.

If you haven’t read L&K, do it. You won’t regret it.

Bio on creators here. Hill’s website. Rodrigeuz’s site and deviantart.

I’ll Show You Mine

Yesterday, a conversation on Twitter switched from a discussion about Game of Thrones to talking about our To Be Read Piles. Mine is a heap in the corner of my bedroom. I keep reading, but it keeps growing.

Because, guys, I have a problem. I can’t stop buying books. If someone wants to get me a present, nine times out of ten, I say, “BOOK!” My best friend has taken to mocking me, “I like…books.” It’s funny when she says it, her words punctuated by unshed laughter. She usually has an evil look in her eye. But I digress.

In my world, books are everywhere. They’re in the attic, in the closet, under the entire bed, on the bookshelf, and piled on top of my dresser. The bookshelf in my bedroom looks so overrun that it might border on furniture abuse.

So far, this year, I’ve read the following:

• Game of Thrones
• Clash of Kings
• Storm of Swords
• Feast for Crows
• Dance with Dragons
• Wicked as They Come
• White Cat
• Locke and Key: Crown of Shadows
• Shine
• Faerie Winter
• You Deserve Nothing

So, yes – my name is Ali, and I’m addicted to books.

But my To Be Read Pile is an unholy monstrosity. If it ever becomes sentient, I’m done for. Below is a picture, but – quid pro quo, Clarice. If I show you mine, I want you to show me yours. Take a picture of your To Be Read Pile. Blog about it. Tweet about it. Share the addiction.

The books: Sky Burial (Dana Levin), IT (Stephen King), The Shining (Stephen King), Wandering Fire; Darkest Road; and Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay), The Princess Bride (William Goldman; read previously, but a zillion years ago), Strip Mauled (Ed. by Esther Friesner), The Haunting of Hill House (Shirley Jackson), Love and Other Impossible Pursuits (Ayelet Waldman), The Forest for the Trees (Betsy Lerner), the Last Unicorn (Peter S. Beagle — which I’ve already read, but not since 1998), Hit or Missus (Gayle Carline), Something Borrowed and Something Blue (Emily Giffin), Divergent (Veronica Roth), The Haunting of Maddy Clarke (Simone St. James), Guardian of the Dead (Karen Healey), City of Fallen Angels (Cassie Clare), The Name of the Wind (Patrick Rothfuss), Anna Dressed in Blood (Kendare Blake), The Shattering (Karen Healey), Shatter Me (Tahereh Mafi), When Maidens Mourn (C.S. Harris), The Unremembered (Peter Orullian), The Night Circus (Erin Morgenstern), The Winter Palace (Eva Stachniak), The Girl of Fire and Thorns (Rae Carson), all the Sandman comics (Gaiman), A Girl and Five Brave Horses (Sonora Carver), Tam Lin (Pamela Dean) and Locke and Key: Keys to the Kingdom (Joe Hill and Gabriel Rodriguez).