How Much is Too Much Bling??

 

I love a mystery and YA writer named Alane Ferguson.  She’s a talented author, a fantastic storyteller and an all-around great human being.  She spoke a couple of years ago at a writing conference I attended in Boise, and I knew right then and there not only did I want to be able to write like her, I wanted to BE her.   Obsessive?  Yes.  Moving on…

I learned some great writing tips that day.  Tips for avoiding repetitious words, great ideas for successful revisions, and fun ways to brainstorm.  I also remember being warned that there is such a thing as “too much bling” in writing. 

“Bling?” You say?  What does that have to do with writing?

Picture any middle school or high school English class and what the students learn about the wonderful alchemy of language.  Similes and metaphors, and all kinds of powerful comparisons.  Alliteration, consonance, assonance and dissonance.   Think of contrasts, exaggerations or emphasis;  anything that turns prose from dry, crumbly textbook reading to a snappy, fun roller coaster ride of a read. 

Alane warned us that too much “bling” is essentially the overuse of any of these magical devices that writers use to make their writing rich and beautiful.  Too much of it actually takes away from the reading experience.  A writer could come across as pompous, or someone who is “trying too hard.”

I don’t think too much “writing bling” has ever been my problem.  I don’t usually attempt to write with a lot of bling, because when I do, hoo boy, do I regret it!  The so-called bling I write ends up looking like cheap dollar-store plastic baubles, in comparison to so many authors I read.  Their bling?  Compared to mine, theirs is more like the real-deal, 100-carat diamond “pretties” the Trumpmeister likes to use to decorate his latest trophy wife.

Now, back to Alane Ferguson and my obsessive nature!  One of Alane’s fun little tips and tricks was this:  take a handful of those little paint strips from your local “mega home DIY” store and use the manufacturers’ creative names for various shades of paint to help you come up with more vivid descriptions in your writing.  Perfect!  I thought.  Like I said, I can’t do bling.

Off to Home Depot I ran.  I happily depleted their supplies of paint strips and toddled off to my home office, where I spread the strips out and began searching for the perfect words to describe a character’s boring, non-descript blue eyes, or brown eyes, or a summer sky, or a wintry setting, etc.

I found the following:

For shades of blue:  Blueberry Pie Blue.  Blue Lagoon.  Azure Sky.  Aegean Blue.  Spring Melt.  Waterfall.  Mount Ranier. 

For shades of yellow to brown:  Egg Yolk.  Almond Butter.  Tahini.  Lunch Bag.

Um….okay.  So I tried.  “His eyes were blue as the Aegean Sea.”  Okay, not that bad.  If I were writing about a Greek character, or about a setting near the Aegean Sea, I can see how that could work.  But so many of the others?  “As he wept, his eyes were like Mount Ranier during a Spring Melt, smoky blue and just as wet.”  Whoa, that was bad!  Or, how about:  “His eyes were the color of a brown lunch bag, after it’s been crumpled and stained with blobs of mayo.”  Yeah, that’s a good one!  Not!

So I pretty much gave up on the “paint strip as writing aid” thing.  I put my rather large stash of paint sample strips to good use, though.  I find the worst ones and come up with the most awful comparisons I can think of and create birthday cards for my writing friends.  After all, why waste a good paint strip when it gives you such phrases as:  “Chasing Chocolate,” “Sliced Avocado,” and “Dried Oregano?”

Visit Alane Ferguson’s website at www.alaneferguson.com and check out her books.  In my opinion, she's got just the right amount of bling. :-)

 

 

 

 

 

How Creepy is Too Creepy?

I'll admit that I like "semi-scary" stuff on occasion when I read.  I don't like blood and gore, nor do I like something that's going to cause me nightmares, but I do like to be, shall I say, "startled" on occasion by reading a good Gothic story or a well-written mystery novel.  Hence, my first book was a YA paranormal novel.  Now, I'm attempting to write a historical novel that's about a rather gruesome subject; that of stealing bodies from their graves to sell to medical schools.  This was a common practice in the United States throughout the 18th and 19th centuries, especially in the East where medical schools abounded.  Students were sometimes required to "provide" their own cadavers for dissection and study, and fresh bodies were in demand but difficult to come by.  Only a very few bodies were legally allowed to be used by schools for study, including those of executed criminals and unclaimed corpses.  Schools often paid high prices for fresh cadavers and asked few, if any, questions as to where the bodies were procured. 

I've worried and wondered as I work on this.  Where is the line between "okay creepy" that maybe sends a few shivers down your spine and the "whoa, that was way too gross/disgusting/horrifying and now I'm going to have nightmares for the rest of my life" kind of scary?   Especially when the intended audience consists of kids?

I think that line is different for everyone.  That's why I worry.

Anyway, I've decided to post the first chapter of my current "work in progress," which I call:  "The Digger."  It takes place in Circleville, Ohio, in the late 1800's, and centers around a twelve year-old boy, Cap Cooper, who finds himself working along with his father, Noah, as a "resurrectionist," or one who steals bodies of the recently dead for profit.  Here goes, and feel free to tell me if it grosses you out!  I won't feel too bad, I promise!

THE DIGGER

By:  Rebecca Bischoff

CHAPTER ONE

Resurrecting the dead is hard work.

Cap heard his father’s words in his head as he hesitated, silent, feeling a throbbing inside his chest.   His heart felt as if it barely had room to move within him, much as Cap himself felt, squeezed inside a hole hardly bigger than he was.  The head of the coffin was inches away.  He couldn’t see it since there was no room for the shuttered lamp inside the tunnel they’d dug, but he could feel the splintery wood with his fingers.  He gulped a mouthful of damp air that smelled of dirt and decay.  Gripping his hammer more tightly, he began to work to open the thin wood of the pauper’s coffin.

“Hurry, boy,” hissed a voice from the entrance to the tunnel.  The ugly, guttural tones belonged to Lum, his father’s friend.  “He’ll make enough noise to wake the dead from here to New York City,” the man muttered.

Cap felt his stomach clench itself into a tiny, cold ball.  It always did whenever he heard Lum speak of him.  But a moment later he heard his father’s voice. 

"Cap can do it," Noah, answered.   “You'll see.  He’s smarter than most his age and as brave as any boy I’ve ever known.”

Hearing his father’s words brought a renewed sense of determination.  Cap continued his work, tapping the square head of the box to locate where the thin slabs of wood were nailed together.   Hearing the metallic ‘ping’ of metal on metal, he felt with his hands until he found the head of the nail, then worked to pry it loose.  A drop of sweat rolled down the side of his forehead as he continued, prying away the nails one by one.  Then, it was done.  Cap pulled away the small, square head of the wooden coffin and shoved it behind him.  He realized he was holding his breath.  Resurrecting the dead is also smelly work, and Cap dreaded that particular hazard to his family business more than any other.

“What did I tell you,” he heard his father murmur from the head of the tunnel, pride coloring the notes of his voice.

Cap released air from his burning lungs.  He had to breathe.  Tucking his neckerchief around his mouth and nose, he breathed in through his mouth, trying not to think of anything but finishing his task and getting out of the tunnel.  Now was the real test.  Reaching behind him, he groped for the thick rope they’d brought along.  Bringing it around in front of him, he slowly stretched trembling fingers through the opening in the coffin.  After an eternal moment, where his body seemed to shake from head to toe, his fingertips touched a head of thick, soft hair.  Cap swallowed again, fighting against every impulse in him that wanted to wrench away his hand, scrabble backwards out of his makeshift tunnel and flee out into the open night air.

He remembered his father’s words when Noah first introduced his son to the “real” family business.  “The dead don’t mind, son, they’re dead,” his father told him.  “We’re doing this world a favor.  Doctors must know how we’re put together, now, don’t they?” 

Fighting against the violent tremors that now shook him all over, Cap brought the rope forward and worked it around the head and shoulders of the unresisting body, moving the rope under the arms.  The flesh of the corpse was soft, its limbs easy to move.  For all he knew, this person could simply be asleep.  Long braids tangled in his fingers. 

A woman! Cap realized.  God almighty, it’s a woman!

He couldn’t help picturing his mother, home in bed, sick with fever, swollen with another child that would probably be born too soon, like all the others.  His mother braided her hair when she went to bed.

Stop it, Cap! he told himself harshly.  Do your duty.  This isn’t Mamma!  Father needs your help and we need the money!

With renewed strength, Cap knotted the rope and gave the signal, a high-pitched whistle.  Grunting softly, the men outside the tunnel began to pull on their end of the rope, Cap helping as best he could as he scooted out backwards, his own hands clasping the rough woven fibers.  Slowly, inch by inch, the woman slipped out of her eternal rest, through the tunnel and into the black autumn night of the cemetery. 

Free from his narrow confinement, Cap stood and stretched stiff legs, gulping crisp air that smelled of rotting leaves.  The cloud-covered midnight sky that blanketed the sleeping cemetery was not quite so dark, he realized, as the thick blackness of the narrow trench beneath the soil from which he’d emerged.  Cap breathed out in a long stream as he gazed up at a tiny gap in the clouds that revealed a scattering of stars.  Though he still could not see much about him, those pinpoints of light, like a scattering of diamond dust in the sky, were a welcome, comforting sight. 

“Help us, boy!”  Lum hissed.  “Don’t stand there lollygagging up at them stars.  This job ain’t over, yet!”

Blinking, Cap stumbled over to assist his father and Lum as they lifted the slight form of the woman into the back of the waiting wagon.  Lum’s shuttered lantern was open only a fraction of an inch to allow the thinnest beam of light to show feebly through.  It was like a drop of golden light meant to illuminate an ocean of black ink around them, for all the good it did them.   But they needed the covering night.

“What did I tell you,” he heard his father say.  “Cap may be knee high to a milk stool, but he’s as full of grit as any boy twice his size.”

“Good thing they don’t pay us by the pound,” Lum muttered, chuckling, ignoring Noah’s statement about his son.  “This thing don’t hardly weigh no more than the trout I pulled out of the stream this morning.”

I did it, Cap thought, swiping at the sweat on his face, smearing dirt.  He thought he should feel something good.  A sense of triumph or achievement, like the day he’d pulled his first fish from the Scioto River, or perhaps when his teacher, Mr. Rankin, had said that Cap’s essay about the history of Circleville, Ohio, was the best in the whole school, even better than the older students’ work.

But Cap felt as if a weight were holding him down; making him heavy and weak.  He didn’t feel good.  Not at all.

“Ho there, boy, finish your work,” Lum said in his harsh whisper.  Cap turned around with a start.  Finish what?  Then he realized that Noah was already shoveling dirt back into the tunnel they’d created at Lum’s command.  Cap still thought that tunnel was a fool idea.  He scratched at a trickle of sweat that ran down his neck.  Why not simply dig in the already soft dirt directly above the coffin?  No one would notice that the recently disturbed soil had been dug into again.  Not that anyone cared in this town.  Most people called this part of Forest Cemetery the “pauper’s section”.  A graveyard for the poor.  The dead nobody cared about.  But Lum was about as hard as iron when it came to his ideas.  And he was the man in charge.

 “No, you dolt!” Lum hissed at the boy when Cap moved toward his father.  Lum grabbed Cap’s arm and steered him over to the wagon.  “Help me with this!  We don’t take the clothes, now do we?  That’s stealing!  Didn’t your Pa tell you nothing?”

Noah hurried over.  “I’ll do that,” he said.  “My boy will finish with the tunnel.  Wait for me to toss the clothing inside before you close it off,” he said to Cap as he handed him the shovel.  Cap took it gratefully.  He had forgotten.  The law said it was illegal to steal from the dead:  clothing, jewelry, anything that might have been buried with them.  But the law said nothing about stealing the bodies.  Bodies weren’t anyone’s property.

“Boy’s gotta learn some time,” Cap heard Lum say with his wheezy chuckle.  He could picture the sarcastic, all-knowing smirk on the older man’s face.  That’s the expression Lum always wore whenever he talked to Cap.  The boy hated that sardonic, mocking look, but more than anything, he hated Lum’s smile.  With his pointed, brown-and-yellow teeth, the man had the look of a bloated wolf when he grinned. 

“Who’s there?” someone shouted.  Cap dropped his shovel.

“Into the wagon, quick!” he heard his father hiss.  Cap turned to run, banging his foot on the blade of the shovel he’d just dropped.  Recovering quickly, he grabbed the wooden handle and hurtled in the direction of the wagon, now completely blind, since Lum had extinguished the tiny flame they’d been using to guide them.  He nearly missed the wagon but caught his ribs painfully on the corner of the box. 

“You there, stop!” the man’s voice shouted, much closer.

Cap felt a strong hand grab his arm and he was hoisted up into the back of the wagon, right on top of the dead woman.  He nearly cried out but was able to clamp his lips closed against the shriek that wanted to escape his lips.  He could imagine what Lum would say.  Scrabbling quickly he moved away from the slight, cold form and hunched down next to his father.  Up in the wagon box, Lum whipped the old horse, Hilda.  The ageing mare took off.

“Stop!”  The man shouted once more.  But good old Hilda was fast, despite her age.  Clouds parted to reveal a sliver of moon, which illuminated this portion of the cemetery with its small leaning markers, a few of stone but most of wood.  Trees nearly bare of leaves flashed by as they fled, bouncing up and down on the hard floor of the wagon box.  The woman’s body shifted and slid toward Cap, who did shriek this time as he shoved her away.

“Steady, son,” Noah murmured in Cap’s ear.   “It’s all right, now.  We’ll get away.  Lum knows every back alley and dirt track in this town.”  Noah paused and shifted until he was in a sitting position.  “Here, throw this over it,” he said.  Cap felt a heavy piece of rough cloth as it was shoved into his hands.  He quickly laid it over the woman’s form and scooted back until he was closer to his father again. 

Noah continued to speak, softly, into his son’s ear.  “Never knew there was a guard at Forest Cemetery.  Could be family, who knows?” 

Willing his heart to slow, Cap shifted himself until he was leaning back into his father’s strong arms, his feet in front of him, ready to kick away the woman’s body if it should slide in his direction again.  At the age of thirteen, he wanted to show his father that he was no longer a small child who clung to his mother’s skirts.  But right now, Noah’s arms felt good, wrapped as they were around his Cap’s thin frame. 

Shouts died out quickly behind them.  Cap found he could breathe again.  As clouds scudded overhead, he caught brief glimpses of the town around him, revealed by the occasional weak flashes of moonlight.  They passed the Union Station, silent at this time of night, crossed onto the square in front of the City Hall, and headed past the short row of stately brick dwellings whose occupants slept soundly, safe in their warm beds.   Those who lived here were buried in style when they died.  No pauper’s graves for them.  

They moved on at a good pace, Hilda’s hooves making heavy ‘clip clop’ sounds as they drove over rough streets.   Cap was surprised to find that his eyes grew heavy.  His father’s arm was warm around his shoulders, and he leaned his head back.

“Almost there,” Lum called back softly over his shoulder.  “We’ll have to ditch the clothes before we bring her in.”

At this statement, Cap was suddenly wide awake.   They’d not had time to remove the woman’s clothing and leave it in the tunnel.  What would they do, now?

“Shove over a bit, son,” Noah said, groaning as he changed position.  “Ah, my old bones are stiff.”  Suddenly, Cap heard his father’s sharp intake of breath.  “What in the—”

The wagon shuddered to a halt as Lum grunted a soft “whoa,” and pulled sharply on the reins.  Cap lifted his head above the rim of the wagon box.  The area surrounding them was light enough for him to recognize where they were.  They were now parked in a narrow alleyway, one he recognized.  This alley was directly behind the court house.  Cap sometimes used it as a shortcut to school. 

The stink of rotting garbage was strong, despite the cold autumn air.  Up ahead, Cap could make out a doorway, brightly lit.  Noah had said that they’d leave the body at the agreed-upon location, making their presence known by using their secret knock: two short raps, a pause, and another two raps.  One who waited for the signal would open the doors.  And, Father had explained, all was to be done in complete darkness.  But now, the gaslights glowed.  Cap’s eyes grew wide as he recognized the building before his eyes.  The Round House?  Built at the start of the Civil War, the imposing eight-sided house squatted right behind the court house.  It was known to be long abandoned.  And rumored to be haunted.  Everyone said so.

“They’ve got the place lit up like Independence Day,” Lum muttered.  “What does he want us to do, waltz in there dragging the thing behind us for the entire world to see?”

“Who?” Cap whispered to his father.  But Noah didn’t respond. 

“I’ll look about and see what’s happening,” Noah said.  “Wait here,” he murmured to Cap. 

“I’m coming, too,” Lum growled.  “Stay here, boy,” he tossed back over his shoulder to Cap.  “Unless you’re too afeared to stay with that thing,” he added, with the ugly, wheezy chuckle.  Cap didn’t have to see Lum’s face to know the hated smile was in place.

Then, the two men were gone, scuttling like overgrown rats down the alley and around the corner of the tall brick Court House.  Cap was left alone with the body.

He scowled. 

He should have known.  It made sense that they would leave him here to watch over the “thing,” as Lum always called the bodies he and Noah procured, but he still didn’t like it.  More than anything, he hated Lum’s mockery, because the man was right.

Cap was scared.  He didn’t like sitting in the wagon bed, all alone at midnight, with the body of a dead woman inches away.  He could feel the tiny hairs standing at attention all along the back of his neck, and Cap had to fight the almost overwhelming desire to hurtle from the wagon and run full speed back home.

There was enough light for him to see the heavy canvas tarp he’d thrown over her.  It almost didn’t look as if there could be anything underneath.  Lum had been right about the woman hardly weighing more than a large fish.  Cap swallowed and willed himself to scoot closer to the body.  He did so, inching forward while he trembled from head to toe.

Lum isn’t right about everything, he told himself grimly, taking in a deep, shaky breath.    Lum was dead wrong about a lot of things, and Cap wasn’t about to let Lum know he truly was “afeared.”  He’d prove it.  He’d finish the job.  He’d take the woman’s clothing from her body so that they could dispose of it somewhere, and he’d show Lum, and his father, that he wasn’t afraid of anything.

Refusing to hesitate, Cap grabbed the tarp and whipped it back from the woman’s face.  Then, he shrieked again.   This time, he didn’t cry out in fear, but shock.  He knew this face.

This was no woman, but a girl.  Though coated with mud and leaves, the girl’s thick, golden hair gleamed in the light that came from the doorway up ahead.  Her oval face was serene, as if she truly were sleeping.   And Cap knew her.  Jessamyn Baker had sat across the aisle from him at school.  When the teacher wasn’t looking, Cap stole many sideways glances.  He loved how she chewed on the end of her pencil as she worked out arithmetic problems, her brow lightly furrowed, and how she knew most of the answers in geography and history even before Cap himself did.  Once, their paths had crossed in the cloak room and she’d smiled at him, her wide hazel eyes friendly but somehow shy at the same time.  Cap had nearly stopped breathing.

The weight he’d sensed earlier settled over the boy’s heart, solid and unyielding.  His eyes filled with tears.

            Jessamyn, buried in a pauper’s grave?  What of her family?  Cap realized how little he really knew about her.  He hadn’t even known she was ill.  Sure, Cap had missed the last week of school, home to help Mama while she was doing poorly, but Jessamyn had been fine when he’d last seen her.

Swiping away the moisture from his stinging eyes, Cap felt something tear apart inside him.  Here he was, ready to sell Jessamyn to some self-important doctors so they could cut her to pieces in front of a gaping crowd of pompous medical students. 

            “No,” Cap muttered, swallowing his tears.  Not this time.  Not even sure of what he planned do, Cap gently placed the tarp back over Jessamyn’s pale face and hopped up into the box of the wagon.  Nudging Hilda softly, he slowly began to back out of the alleyway, forming his plan as he went.

Cap knew that a few blocks to the west of the Court House there was an old Catholic church, St. Joseph’s, recently converted into an orphanage.  He’d leave Jessamyn there at the back door.  He hated to think of what the poor sisters would think when they found her, but he felt he had no choice.  Cap hoped that by the time her body was discovered and reburied, it would likely be too late for Lum and Noah to get any money for her.  If a “thing” went bad, which often happened during the hottest summer months, the medical colleges didn’t want it for dissection. 

Fingers of icy wind ruffled Cap’s dirt-filled hair as he drove, and his thoughts turned dark.  His was a fool’s errand.  It was autumn, and a cold one at that.  Odds were that the girl’s body wouldn’t turn bad before she was found.  She was yet mighty likely to end up on a table, sawn asunder and gawked at by a room full of strangers. 

            Cap swallowed hard and drove on.  He had to try.  He’d do this for her.  It was all he could do, now.  It didn’t take him long to find the alley that ran behind the old church.  Pulling to a stop in front of the back steps, he climbed out of the box and into the back of the wagon.  He wanted one more look at the girl’s face.

            She was serene as before, eerily beautiful in the dim moonlight.  Why can’t you be sleeping? Cap thought, wishing it with all his heart.  Then, without thinking, he reached down to touch her soft cheek.  As he did so, a brief sensation of warmth shot up his finger and traveled up his arm.  His eyes widened in shock.  Her flesh was warm?  Cap gasped and pulled his hand away.  Jessamyn’s eyelids seemed to flutter, a slight movement, no greater than the merest flicker, so slight that Cap though he must have dreamed it.  Then, nothing.

            Gaping, trembling, hardly daring to breathe, Cap reached down again and touched the girl’s soft cheek, then placed his palm on her forehead.   And then, something happened that he never expected.

            She opened her eyes.

So This Time I Try my Hand at "Dystopia"

I hated reading Orwell's "1984" in school.  Guess what year I got to read it?  That's right!  It was actually 1984!  Big deal.  I never liked books or movies about flawed, totalitarian futuristic societies.  That's essentially what I used to call them in my mind, because I don't remember hearing the term "dystopian" until much later.  I probably did hear it, but it didn't stick.  Well, imagine my embarrassment at a writing conference about five years ago when the term was being tossed around and I wasn't sure what everyone was talking about.  I especially felt silly when I realized that the word is the opposite of "utopia."  Seems simple enough to figure out, but I didn't.  I decided my little mental block was simply due to my dislike of the whole genre.  Then someone named Suzanne Collins wrote a book called "The Hunger Games."  Not long after that, someone named Allie Condy wrote "Matched."  I wasn't so turned off by dystopian literature after that.  :-)

All this aside, I decided to try my hand at it, based on a writing prompt a friend posted on her blog:
www.writenowanyway.blogspot.com

What I wrote has no title, so I call it:  "Chapter One of my Silly Attempt to Write a Dystopian Novel."  I used local settings, including the "City of Rocks" near Gooding, Idaho, and the School for the Deaf and Blind that's also in Gooding.  I've been to these places and like them, but I noticed that both have the potential to be super creepy.    In writing this, I also thought of how easy it would be to control how others act and even think if you could completely control what they were allowed to read or watch.  (This is definitely touched on in many dystopian works, including "Matched," where people aren't allowed to learn to write, and where all books are destroyed when found).  So, I created a world where everyone has a tablet.  Basically, what you read is downloaded for you.  No actual, physical books are allowed.  And, here we go.

(Next time:  Steam Punk!)

               

           They caught me red-handed.  Literally.  My can of spray paint exploded.  Don’t ask me why; maybe it was the insane heat of the place that did it.  Maybe it was God’s sense of humor.  Well, whatever it was that made that stupid spray can explode effectively marked me as the culprit.  I may as well have painted my full name on the rocks around me.  Grandma would have had one of her “hissy fits” if she’d known where I was going that day and what I was doing.  The stuff was dripping from my palms like drops of blood from the hands of a murderer when the officer stepped out from behind a neighboring rock, sweating and huffing in the July sun with a look of sheer delight on his face.

                “We got ‘im,” he said into his handset.  His ‘hick from Idaho’ accent was blatantly obvious.

                “Her,” I corrected him, reaching up to knock my cap from my head, careful not to touch it with my crimson-tinted fingers.  My tangle of dirty blond hair cascaded down, partially hiding my face from view.  “You got her, loser.  What took you so long?”

                He didn’t like my attitude.  I didn’t like the plastic ties he used to cuff my wrists behind me.  He pulled them way too tight.  I forced myself not to wince and pretended it didn’t hurt.

                Our walk through the strange landscape of the place known as the City of Rocks was silent, except for the crunch of gravel underfoot, the hum of insects and the occasional rustle of some creature, lizard or maybe even snake, in the scrubby bushes that surrounded the path we headed down.  Well, add to that list the wheezing sounds the officer made as he ambled along behind me with his gun trained on my back.

My incriminating artwork was all around me, the red lines startlingly clear and bright against the dark rock formations that surrounded us like a group of giants.  Maybe they were Tolkien’s trolls caught by the sunrise.  I kind of half-smiled at that thought.  Mom loved that story, and she had always told it when she talked about this place.  Maybe that’s why I chose it.  I don’t know. 

Once Officer Wheezy put me into his vehicle, the unmarked jeep that had fooled me into thinking no cops were around, I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep.  Well, that was only after I wiped my paint-covered hands onto the upholstery.  I figured they’d take me to Twin Falls, where the “Juvenile Reeducation Center” is located, thought they don’t call it that.  They just call it “Canyon Ridge.”  I’d have some time to think of a good story.  And, to figure out how to get back to the City of Rocks and rescue my antique Vespa, the awesome little motorbike that Grandma kept for so long in her storage shed.

Drops of sweat trickled down my neck, making me itch, but I didn’t scratch.  I wasn’t about to let Officer Doofus know that I was uncomfortable.  So, what was my story going to be?  I sighed in frustration and shook my head against the dull ache that threatened to emerge.  I didn’t even understand my real story.  I mean,  I don’t know why I kept coming here to cover those gigantic lumps of lava with weird, red symbols, but one day, a couple of months ago, a sudden urge to get artistic hit me.  I think it was after that night when Grandma had told me a story, and then given me something. 

“My Grandma Evie, your great-great grandmother, well, she was a reader!”  Grandma had said, while picking bits of spinach out of her yellow teeth.  Apparently, Evie would go to one of those places called a library, where there were rooms and rooms full of tall shelves filled with nothing but books.  Thousands, or even tens of thousands of books.  And Evie would check out at least twenty of them, no lie.  She’d read them all in a couple of weeks, and then be back for more.

“My mother loved to tell me about that,” Grandma had murmured, her slanted eyes getting that misty look they always got when she went back in time.  “She told me how Evie would laugh at the librarians who told her she wouldn’t have time to read so many books.  She’d look right in their faces and say:  ‘You don’t know me very well, do you?’” 

Then, Grandma’s eyes had spilled over.  “I wish I could remember Grandma Evie.  She died when I was so little.   But I remember my mother, and how she would read to me.  Every day she read wonderful stories, from real books made of paper, with colorful pictures.  That was before they took all the books away, you know,” Grandma had whispered, leaning closer to me.  Then, she’d sat back and held her hands to her heart.  “One I always loved was about a little girl who ate so many pink cupcakes she turned herself pink.  If I could have one book from my childhood, only one to keep, that would be it.”

Then Grandma had excused herself and gone to her room.  I’d cleared the dishes away and done my homework on my Tablet.  Most of it was the boring stuff.  History, geography.  Another essay, titled:  “How My Choices Led Me Here.”  Meaning: “Why I was punished by being sent away from home and forced to attend a ‘reeducation’ school, where my every move is watched.”   I’ve done at least ten of these essays in the last six months.   Apparently they’re not satisfied with my answers, yet.

And then, Grandma had returned.  “They didn’t get them all,” she’d whispered, putting something into my hands.  I was so startled I dropped it.  My heart had thumped in my chest as I’d stared down at the tattered rectangle in my lap. 

It was a book! 

I held my breath when I picked it up.  There in my hands was an actual book made from paper; made from trees!  It felt so strange to my fingers.  It had pages, unevenly cut rectangles of pressed paper with tiny words typed on both sides.  The paper was so old and worn it had a soft, satiny feel.  I lifted the book to my nose.  It smelled of dust, and yet the scent was slightly sweet, like vanilla.  I breathed in, deep. 

I’d never, ever seen one of these before.

Everything we read is provided for us on our Tablets.  They download what they want us to learn.  When we’re done, content is erased and replaced for us. Long ago, when Grandma was little, they came and took away all the actual ‘made from trees’ books.  If you happen to find one, which is rare, you’re supposed to turn it in.  If you don’t, and someone sees you with one, they’re supposed to report you. 

“Don’t let anyone know,” Grandma had whispered.  “This is a treasure.  I want you to have it.”

The jeep bumped on the uneven dirt road, and I snapped out of my reverie.  After all the big talk about paving Every Road in America, they seem to have forgotten about certain parts of Idaho.  Figures.

Back to my story.  What was I going to tell the cops?  I didn’t even know what the symbols I painted meant.  That probably meant no one else did, either. 

There!  I sat up taller and opened my eyes.  We were almost in Gooding, the tiny town where I always stopped to buy trail mix and bottled water before I headed out to the City of Rocks to paint.  Now I knew what I’d say. 

“They’re works of art, officer,” I’d say.  They only teach art to those who show “competency” for it, and I missed the cut-off.  By one percentile point.  It was perfect!  I was nothing more than a frustrated artist who needed to express her talent. 

I was so pleased with my sudden inspiration that I smiled widely, before remembering to go back into full scowl mode for the ugly cop’s benefit.  To be honest, I kind of thought that my made-up story was partly true.  Going to the City of Rocks to paint those symbols, the ones I’d found in the tattered notebook way back in Grandma’s closet, was my way of crying out when I had no voice.

Anyway, what were they going to do to me?  Relocate me?  Already did that, didn’t they?

The jeep slowed for the first and only traffic light in the tiny town of Gooding, and then the cop hit the left-turn signal and we swerved around the corner. 

“Aren’t we going back to Twin?” I asked him, silently cursing myself for dropping the second part of the town’s name in the casual way that the locals do.  Thanks to Grandma, I was starting to sound like them! 

“Nope,” the cop responded with a sneer.  “You’re going to The School.”

                At his words, a finger of ice trailed a path down my spine.  I'd never heard much about that place, but what I did hear was bad.  Real bad. 

                “But,” I spluttered, “what about a hearing?  Aren’t you supposed to put me in Juvie first, and then take me to see a judge?”

                The cop chuckled to himself as we pulled into the parking lot.  As usual, no one seemed to be about, but in the scattering of once-white buildings that surrounded us, I saw faces pressed against the spotted windows.

                Turning around to smirk at me, the cop whispered:  “You already had a hearing, girlie.  They read me your file.  You had your chance and you blew it.  No more hearings.  I’m your judge and jury.  Get out.”

                He didn’t even take the plastic cuffs from my wrists.  He just drove off. 

                And I turned to face my new home, feeling my heart pound so hard it hurt.  For the first time that day, I was afraid.

               

Picture Book Rant

“Let’s read Strawberry Shortcake!” my five-year old shouts.  I groan.  I comply.  I inwardly cringe every time I have to exchange the word: “berry” for “very.”  (This occurs berry often when you read the Strawberry Shortcake books.)

I beg her to let me read “Harry the Dirty Dog,” or “If You Give a Pig a Pancake.”  Doctor Seuss books are always fun.  Recently the “Pinkalicious” books have tickled my fancy, and “The Polar Express” is so gorgeous I want to reread it immediately after I finish it.  And whatever happened to “Goodnight Moon?”

I think cartoons happened to great picture books. 

Cartoons and popular toys caught our children’s attention; publishers caught on to that fact, and began to spew out a ton of what I think of as “commercial” or trademark fiction.  So, stores are full of books like:  “Barbie:  I Can Be a Baby Doctor,” where Barbie decks herself out in scrubs and high heels (!) and shadows a pediatrician, a woman who also wears heels.  We get the dreaded Strawberry Shortcake books, books that retell kids’ movies, like “Alvin and the Chipmunks,” and books based on popular kids’ shows, like “Hannah Montana,” and “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.” Luckily, my five year-old isn’t into mutated turtles, but she does love “Totally Spies” books based on a cartoon she hasn’t even seen.

These books aren’t all that bad.  The Scholastic company publishes many of them, and they are geared toward helping kids learn to read.  I’m sure they motivate many reluctant readers, but for me, the joy is sucked right out of reading to my child every time I have to force myself to say: “What a berry good idea!  That sounds just berry-licious!”

So, we made a new rule.  For every “trade” book I have to read, I get to choose the next one.  This way, my daughter is still exposed to the likes of Dr. Seuss, Margaret Wise Brown of “Goodnight Moon” fame, and the fun artwork of the “Fancy Nancy” books.  In addition, we can still peruse the aisles at the library and meet new book friends like: “No, David!” or “The Night I Followed My Dog.”

So, tell me your favorite picture book!  I just might want to read it to my daughter, as long as the word “berry” isn’t used in the place of “very,” and as long as there are no stiletto-wearing Barbie doll doctors.

 

Self-Censorship: Why I Might Throw Away But Never "Ban or Burn"

“The Nazis are about to start burning books!  I don’t know if I can go on!”

This was from my amazing ten-year old nephew, a book-loving brainiac, all around great guy and first-time reader of “The Book Thief.”

I recently saw an online photo of a monument in Germany aimed at reminding us of the time when many, many books were burned because they contained what the Nazi’s deemed “inappropriate.”  (I think that mostly meant anti-Nazi sentiment).

The thought of burning books is horrifying to me, to my soft-hearted nephew, and to so many others.  Why?  Books represent so much.  The collective learning and knowledge of millennia.  Alternate universes that can be visited briefly or over and over again throughout a lifetime.  Places that only exist in our minds but become part of us. 

Perspectives vastly different from your own.

Thoughts, statements or stories that you may find offensive and in complete opposition to your world view, political opinions, or sense of morality or taste.

That to me is why so often, various individuals or groups have wanted to remove certain books from libraries, bookstores, and homes.  Thankfully, I haven’t heard of many widespread book-burning parties since World War II, though I could be wrong.  I have, however, heard of many times when individuals or groups complained to libraries and schools, demanding that certain books be removed.

Many, many books out there are offensive to me.  Some offend me in a minor way.  This includes books that are poorly written but that are still on the shelves.  Yes, that’s offensive to me!  J  Something else has bothered me for a few years.  The Twilight novels seemed to set a new trend.  I call this the “obligatory love triangle.”  I’m disgusted by the sheer number of Young Adult books where the author sets up bizarre and frankly improbable situations in order to create such a scenario.   I actually met an author who was frustrated because her agent couldn’t sell her YA fantasy novel.  Why?  Publishers thought it was great but didn’t want it because there was no love triangle.  Really?  Come on!

There are also books that truly offend me on a deeper level.  This includes books that contain extreme violence and a lot of profanity.  It also includes extensive, detailed sexual content that doesn’t even need to be in the story, but is there for obvious reasons (think of the high volume of Harlequin “Romance” novels and other such drivel).  Violence against women.  Depictions of child molestation.  There’s a whole lot of this garbage out there, in books.  Again, as hard as it is to say it, I still defend the right of these authors to write this trash, and of libraries and stores to display and sell it.

I won’t read it.  When I come into contact with such a book, I’ll return it to the library unread, and if I happen to have bought the book, I’ll likely toss it out instead of passing it on to my kids, but I won’t demand that my library remove the book from its shelves.  I won’t complain to the school about the kinds of books they make available to my kids, either.  Why? Because I believe in the freedom of speech.  I believe in the freedom of the individual to speak or write anything he or she chooses.

I met an author a few years ago whose books are full of profanity and deal with, well, “sensitive” issues.  Schools have been pressured to remove his books from their libraries.  I personally can’t stand the way this guy writes.  I think he uses profanity as a crutch, and for shock value.  But if I believe in freedom of speech, I’ll defend his right to create such books.   I’ll defend the right of libraries and bookstores to display and sell his work. 

I believe in “self censorship.”  To me, that means that I choose which books I will read, and which books I will not read.  I don’t want anyone else to make that choice for me.  I don’t want to make that choice for another person, either.  When I come across something that offends, I will make the choice to close the book.  I hope to teach my children the same thing. 

So, if you are an author I don’t like, don’t worry.  I won’t start piling up your books and looking for the matches. 

I might badmouth you in my blog, however.  J

 

 

Real Women in Books, Please!

Not too long ago I had a revelation at a Medical Spa.  It wasn’t a happy one.

I wanted to know what to do about some mild acne scars on my face.  I sat across from the doctor who owns the place for a consultation.  Without even looking at my scars, he first asked:  “So when did you break your nose?”

I think my answer was something along the lines of:  “Uh, what??”

I hadn’t been aware that my nose had been broken up until that point, but he handed me a mirror, and sure enough, my nose is crooked.  It definitely leans to one side.  Oh.

Then, while I was still digesting that bit of information, he asked me this little zinger:  “So, did you have ‘Bell’s Palsy’ as a child?”

What???

He then proceeded to show me how the right side of my face displays mild muscle weakness in comparison to the left side, making one eyebrow higher than the other, one eyelid slightly more droopy, and my lips puffier on one side.  In effect, my face is asymmetrical, or crooked. 

Holy cow!  Forget the stupid acne scars!  I’m a freak of nature!

I declined the recommended scar treatment:  a $500 laser session to burn off a few layers of skin.  I went home afraid to look in the mirror.

I was reminded of this experience as I got to thinking about how women’s looks are described by writers.  This isn’t a discussion of how much detail writers should include in their character descriptions.  Instead, I’m reflecting on something that’s always bugged me just a tad:  so many female literary heroines are gorgeous, beautiful, stunning, ethereal, amazing, attractive, or as we hear so often today, “hot.”  Their bodies are perfect according to current fashion, which lately seems to mean “tiny, skinny stick arms and big boobs.”  (Thanks to a friend for that quote.  It pretty much sums up today’s standard of beauty for me). 

 But what are real women like? 

We have scars.  We’re overweight or underweight.  We have grey hair.  Too many laugh lines.  Stretch marks.  Flat chests and flabby arms.  Too tall.  Too short.  Too young. Tool old.  Puffy eyes from lack of sleep.  Blotchy skin and frizzy hair.  We’re imperfect and…asymmetrical.  And yet, each woman is of great value to someone.  She’s a daughter, a mother, a sister, a friend, a neighbor, a coworker.  She’s your child’s beloved teacher, the pharmacist who remembers everyone’s name.  Your Mom.  When did a child ever care if Mom looked like a supermodel?  Why do female characters in books have to look that way?

I know that not every writer does this.  I’m also not suggesting that all writers should go out of their way to describe female protagonists in as unappealing a manner as possible.  I’m just asking for a little reality. 

I found a touch of that reality in a book I read a few years ago.  Sadly, I can’t remember the title, but I remember this.  The main character, a woman, took a moment for self reflection.  In essence, she thought this:  “So, I’m ten or more pounds overweight.  I’m shorter than average.  My eyebrows are way too thick.  So what?”

So what indeed!  J