Why Gatsby Used to Suck

I first read Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby in high school, and I hated it. I found it to be boring, pretentious, and pointless. With the upcoming release of Baz Luhrmann’s film version, my curiosity was peaked, and I decided to give Gatsby another try. I was stunned, because now, at the age of thirty, I love The Great Gatsby. I want to shake my high school self and shout, “What the hell was the matter with you?”

But then, I came to a realization: it’s no wonder my high school self hated Gatsby; there was no way my high school self understood the book at all.

The Great Gatsby is about living in the past—dreaming about the past. The novel is about regret and trying to regain old glories, old feelings. Gatsby is about gluttony, drunkenness, and the overwhelming appeal of wealth … and the emptiness wealth brings to relationships and life. As a teenager at Perrysburg High School, I had no past to dream about. I had no old glories to re-attain. I had yet to attend my first fancy drunk-fest. I knew nothing about life, nothing at all, outside the context of my GPA and college applications.

Now thirty, I recognize the gluttonous party scenes, because I’ve lived them. I recognize the empty speak, practically comical in its vapidity. I recognize Gatsby’s longing for things past and his futile grasping for love lost, never again to be regained. At thirty, I get it, which is why Gatsby is now one of my favorite books.

In a similar vein, I reread The Awakening this week—another blast from the past and another book I could not possibly have appreciated as a spoiled honor student. The Awakening is about a wife and mother who feels trapped in her existence. She escapes the confines of duty and runs free, even falling in love with another man. In the end (spoiler alert), she realizes there will always be another man, another dream unfulfilled. She will never be satisfied, so she kills herself.

Question: why are kids reading these books in high school? You know me. You know I’m thoroughly against censorship of any kind. However, I’m not talking about censorship. I don’t think books like Gatsby and The Awakening should be removed from high school curriculum because of their questionable content. I think they should be removed because high school students have absolutely no chance of relating to or understanding what authors like Fitzgerald and Chopin are trying to say.

I was a nerd in high school—AP everything, especially English—yet even for me, Gatsby was pointless, because at the age of eighteen, I had yet to truly live. I had no life experiences that I could relate to poor Jay Gatsby. I had no idea why sad Edna Pontillier would drown herself at the end of The Awakening. I’m not saying that, at thirty, I’m suicidal; however, I am saying that now, I understand Gatsby. I understand Edna. I have lived. I have failed. I have felt horrible heartbreak, and I have based empty relationships on alcohol. I am an adult; these books have become more than homework assignments—they have become masterpieces.

Like I said, I’m against censorship, but I think the American education system should seriously reevaluate what kids are reading. I know they’re supposed to read “the classics,” but the classics (as evidenced by Gatsby) can easily be despised when youth have an inability to relate. There are so many amazing, spectacular books written about high school. There are books like The Sledding Hill and The Perks of Being a Wallflower—books high school kids could read, love, and understand. Arguably, in the hands of young students, books like Gatsby and The Awakening are wasted.

If not for the movie remake, I never would have picked Gatsby up again. Imagine what I would have missed because of my stupid high school self. I suggest you take a look back at some of the books you “hated” in high school. You’ll be surprised at the affect they have on you, now that you have lived.

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New Thriller: The Burning Air by Erin Kelly

I have a quasi-obsessive relationship with Erin Kelly’s work. When I see a new book of hers soon to be released, I pre-order it, because I must have it as soon as possible. She is further proof that the Europeans are really kicking our ass in the literary realm.

I first met her through The Poison Tree (which is still arguably my favorite of her books). She’s British; I’ve never been to London, so she painted a world for me in Poison Tree of youthful gluttony, violence, and horror, surrounded by Brit charm and vengeance. How can you not love that? Then came The Dark Rose, another thriller filled with regret, angst, and sex. Do you see a pattern here? Erin Kelly loves characters who linger in darkness, but her books are not downers; they’re just creepy and they have a way of making you squirm.

Her most recent opus, The Burning Air, was only released in America weeks ago. I pre-ordered it (duh), so I had a copy in my hands day of its release. Did I read the synopsis? Nope. The book could have been about two kids playing on a swing set, and I would buy it simply because Erin Kelly wrote it—and when she writes, she doesn’t just put words on a page. She uses words to create images that stay with you for hours, days, weeks after you’ve put the book down.

The Burning Air is no different than her first two fantastic pieces of literature. This one follows the close-knit MacBrides as they plan a weekend visit to the family barn in Devon, following the death of their worshipped matriarch, Lydia. The grown up kids arrive with their children and all their significant others, including a new addition to the family—a strange, quiet girl named Kerry. Together with their father, they plan to scatter Lydia’s ashes at the barn, the place where they spent so many happy days with dear mum.

As expected, things go incredibly awry. I’d love to tell you what things go awry, but of course, I can’t. Where’s the fun in ruining the suspense? I will say … you’ll never see it coming.

Erin Kelly has a telltale modus operandi: she loves jumping around in time. This book takes place in the “present,” but all things that happen in the “present” are based on things (horrible things) that happened in the “past.” Kelly also often jumps from character to character, developing entire segments from different character perspectives. Although she is a genius at both of these literary techniques, her true mind-boggling skill rests in her use of suspense.

Just like in The Poison Tree and The Dark Rose, there are moments in The Burning Air when I had to stop, reread, reread again, and then shout, “Oh, no she didn’t!” I tried to keep Jake abreast of plot developments, but as soon as I explained one aspect, the next day, there would be a new twist, and Jake would be left asking, “But I thought you said <insert character name> was crazy,” when in fact, <insert character name> is completely sane but surrounded by a crazy situation. No one keeps me guessing like Erin Kelly.

Feel free to jump in to this, her newest release. I promise that once you’ve finished, you’ll go back and read her others. Not only can she make guts and gore sound beautiful, but Kelly redefines the phrase “page-turner.”

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The Peculiar: Black Crow Feathers in the Sky

Over the past few years, I’ve become an obsessive fan of magic realism and quirky fantasy. Not only do I read it, but I write it; the book I finished in August is classified magic realism. There’s something about the monotony of real life being broken up by, say, a magic wand, or in the case of Stefan Bachmann’s The Peculiar, a half-faery child and falling black feathers.

Stefan Bachmann.

Stefan Bachmann is a kid, which is borderline disgusting. He started writing The Peculiar when he was sixteen. (Seriously, you have to resent people who are insanely talented at such a young age.) He currently lives in Zurich, Switzerland, where he attends the Zurich Conservatory. Not only does he write novels, but he writes music, too. He plays multiple instruments, and he composed songs to go along with The Peculiar, available at the book’s website, http://www.thepeculiarbook.com.

The Peculiar is the story of Bartholomew Kettle. Bartholomew is a changeling: half faery, half human. In the surreal world of The Peculiar (set in a fictitious Victorian England where magic is fully acknowledged), changelings are known as “Peculiars,” and neither faery nor human want anything to do with them.

Bartholomew spends his days hiding in his tiny house in Bath (a faery slum) with his human mother and changeling sister, Hettie (who has tree branches for hair). One day, things go haywire when Bartholomew witnesses his neighbor (also a Peculiar) being abducted by a creepy woman in purple. In all, nine Peculiars have gone missing and turned up dead lately, this neighbor being the last.

The English Parliament is worried, which is where hum-drum human Arthur Jelliby comes in. Jelliby would have been fine sleeping in, wandering through a mundane life, but when he makes a scene at the home of fellow Parliament member and faery Mr. Lickerish, Arthur and Bartholomew’s fates are intertwined. They must save the Peculiars, stop the woman in purple, and figure out what’s up with the black feathers that rain from the sky—before the world collapses into magical chaos.

See, doesn’t that sound like fun? Not only is the plotline exceptional, but the writing is, too. The voice is playful on occasion. Then, Bachmann goes dark and spooky. Other times, his words are whimsical. Every page is entertaining. I read the dang book in two days, couldn’t put it down. For me, The Peculiar is a perfect mix of fantasy, mystery, horror, and comedy. The imagery is haunting, for certain, and little kids will be freaked. I’d say reading level is young adult, but the storyline is all ages.

Bartholomew just wants to fit in, but as a changeling, he can’t. Jelliby just wants to sleep in, but with a newfound conscience, he can’t either. These characters change throughout the novel; they learn about themselves and about each other. As reader, we learn about the world of Bachmann—a surreal, glorious place where wolves pull taxis and lamplights are flame faeries trapped behind glass. I can’t wait for the sequel (yes, there’s a sequel). Rumor has it this is a two-book series, but trust me, once you read The Peculiar, you’re gonna wish Bachmann could stretch this thing out for seven.

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The Language Police: How Pressure Groups Restrict What Students Learn

I’ve been on an anti-censorship kick for, oh, my entire life, but now, it’s official; I’m enrolled in a “Censorship and Banned Books” class at Glendale Community College. One of our recent assignments was reading ex-Department of Education secretary Diane Ravitch. She wrote a book in 2003 entitled The Language Police: How Pressure Groups Restrict What Students Learn, and it terrified me, although the content did not shock my teacher friends, who knew all about textbook and standardized test censorship way before I did.

The book begins by giving concrete examples of why certain reading samples were cut from standardized tests. An essay about peanuts was questioned because some students might be allergic to peanuts and this would upset them. A segment about women and patchwork quilting was also spurned, because “bias and sensitivity reviewers” didn’t want women portrayed as “soft” or “submissive,” doing housewife-type chores. A story about a blind mountain climber caused a stir because bias reviewers considered it “biased to acknowledge that lack of sight is a disability.”

I could go on and on. The point of this first chapter was to inform, because as Ravitch points out, “Bias and sensitivity review has evolved into an elaborate and widely accepted code of censorship that is implemented routinely but hidden from public sight,” which was why my teacher friends knew about this stuff but I did not—until now.

What I enjoyed about this book was that Ravitch doesn’t have a target; The Language Police examines the liberal left and the conservative right with equal disgust. For instance, although the right does harbor an idealized hope for the future of America (which is nice), the right also censors historical fact by giving American history a cheerful slant so as not to offend the more sensitive (i.e. weak, sheltered, ignorant) students from the truth.

The left has a good point in yearning for equality, but they take it too far by requiring textbooks to portray an equal number of males and females in pictures, pets included. The left has also forgotten the importance of education in exchange for political correct-ness. In an effort to achieve sexual equality, “Literary quality became secondary to representational issues.” Who suffers because of extreme censorship? Children who will one day run the world, God help us.

The language police are killing modern education by dumbing down subject matter due to bias and sensitivity. For example, “Under the present regime of censorship, the schools themselves are not intellectually free. They cannot awaken young people’s minds with great literature when the stuff in their literature textbooks is so banal, so ordinary. … When their reading is constrained by the fine filter of bias and sensitivity codes, how can it possibly contribute to the forming of critical and independent minds? … All of that has been sacrificed to the gods of coverage and cultural equivalence.”

I feel lucky that I received the education I did in the time when I did. I never felt sheltered or censored by my teachers. I was lucky to have teachers that tested the boundaries. We read Heart of Darkness and were then asked to write an essay comparing the book to its movie counterpart, Apocalypse Now. We read Mark Twain before the LP got a hold of it. When I was in school, we were not afraid, and I feel that is what censors create: an environment of fear. Don’t step out of line or they’ll shut down your publishing house, get you booted from your job, or worse: try to turn you into one of them!

In closing, a moving quote for you to consider (and for the language police to choke on): “Great literature does not comfort us; it does not make us feel better about ourselves. It is not written to enhance our self-esteem or to make us feel that we are ‘included’ in the story. It takes us into its own world and creates its own reality. It shakes us up; it makes us think. Sometimes it makes us cry.”

If you have any interest in learning more about the censorship that is currently taking place in schools or how to fight it, please read Diane Ravitch’s The Language Police. It’ll open your eyes and make you want to fight censors with torches and pitchforks.

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Abiding by “The Rules of the Tunnel”

For the past month and a half, I’ve suffered from what I call “unmanageable depression and anxiety.” Trust me, there’s a big difference between manageable and unmanageable. Manageable is what I’ve lived with for years. Unmanageable is a different animal altogether.

For instance, it’s hard to explain why the thought of vacuuming the living room makes me cry or why I can’t find the mental constitution to shower or put on makeup every day. It’s hard to explain why I don’t want to eat or why leaving the house is akin to climbing Everest. Yet, in times like these, the synchronicity of literature can sometimes be astounding. Or maybe it’s just God putting a certain book in my hands at a certain, specific time.

The book to which I refer is The Rules of the Tunnel: My Brief Period of Madness by Ned Zeman. Zeman was a successful editor for Vanity Fair when his descent began. He became fascinated with offbeat men who suffered strange deaths, most notably Grizzly Man Tim Treadwell. Soon, this fascination turned into anxiety and depression, therapist after therapist, medication after medication.

An excerpt: “Everything, at this point, was an anvil on top of a piano. Utility bills sat on the kitchen table for weeks, unpaid. Not because of money concerns. Because who had the strength to find postage stamps? Meals went uneaten; suits, baggy; calls, unreturned. … By month six, your hands were trembling round the clock. The subway was a potential powder keg—The Taking of Brooklyn One Two Three. You kept up appearances as best you could—you were gifted that way. … You wanted out. Needed it.” This, in so many words, is depression.

Zeman’s journey is long and arduous, but his writing is not. He is possibly the first writer I’ve come across to successfully write an entire book in second person: you this and you that. The perspective made it all the more personal, as if you, the reader, were along for Zeman’s horrific ride through the dark, lonely tunnel of mood disorder, followed by electroconvulsive treatment (yes, shock treatment) and the ensuing amnesia—often a side effect of ECT.

Zeman is at times tragic, at times hilarious, and at times completely inappropriate. The book is not a downer; it is a first-hand, honest, self-deprecating account of a topic most of us would rather not discuss.

Author Ned Zeman.

As someone whose own depression/anxiety is, every four or five years, completely unmanageable, it was comforting to read the descriptions of Zeman’s own torment. It made me feel less alone, and although he may not be technically “healed” by the end (are we ever?), he at least knows how to be better. Perhaps what further aligned me to his plight was the writer thing. As he points out, “Chipper, well-adjusted people don’t write ‘The Raven,’ To the Lighthouse or Heart of Darkness. … Writers, creatives, were different from everyone else.” I’m aware of this (as are thankfully my friends, family, and husband), and I embrace the difference. Would I be an artist without my depression? Am I an artist because of my depression? Does my depression stem from my art? Too many questions, all of them unanswerable and frankly inconsequential.

I related heavily to Zeman and the characters in his book, including an overdose victim named Michael who used to disappear from parties for a couple minutes, only to return and explain, “Sorry. I was in my car. I needed a place to scream.” I related to David Foster Wallace, who Zeman quotes as writing, “The depressed person was in terrible and unceasing emotional pain, and the impossibility of sharing or articulating this pain was itself a component of the pain and a contributing factor in its essential horror.”

Yet as I said, The Rules of the Tunnel is not a downer book. It is a book of terror, of treatment, and of eventual self-realization. By the end, Zeman has learned the rules of his mood disorder. He has learned how to utilize treatment and loved ones in constructive, healthy ways. Some of his best advice: “Call someone, anyone. Some fifty-five million Americans have a mood disorder, and every one of them feels a little less alone when they meet a fellow traveler.”

For the duration of 308 pages, I was Zeman’s fellow traveler, and I traveled with him down his path at a time when I needed him most. Depression and anxiety are things we live with. Some days are better than others. Some years, the same. It’s a disorder that may never go away, but like Zeman, I hold hope that unmanageable can become manageable. Life is a trip through the tunnel. Sometimes the lights go off, but The Rules of the Tunnel reminded me that eventually, they are bound to come back on.

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I Finally Read The Hunger Games

So I finally read The Hunger Games. It only took several (several) months of friends telling me, “You have to read this book!” for me to decide I didn’t want to read the damn book. Plus, there was the movie tie-in. I wasn’t interested in seeing the movie. Why would I be interested in reading the book?

I admit it was my pride. I don’t like reading books that are all the rage. My friend, Sam (who, by the way, is certifiably insane for The Hunger Games trilogy) refuses to read Fifty Shades of Gray for this very reason. Well, I read Fifty Shades of Gray, long before I realized it was “hip” to do so. Now that it’s so insanely popular, I’m kind of embarrassed to say I read it on our honeymoon. Regardless of my admitted affiliation with Christian Gray, I still didn’t want to read The stinkin’ Hunger Games.

Here’s how it happened: I was in the library the other day, because I love being in libraries. I was browsing through the young adult section, because Jake’s brother, Zach, got me on this gay vampire series and I wanted to see if I could find the third book. Instead of my gay vampire book, I found three copies of The Hunger Games. My fingers twitched when I saw the dog-eared paperback cover. I glanced to my right and left. I felt guilty—guilty to even consider going back on all I’d said about not wanting to read this Suzanne Collins trilogy. No one was looking, so I grabbed the stupid book and ran out the door (after checking out, obviously).

What happened next? I read the book in three days. Now, I know this is nothing to some of you who read the book in eight hours (Sam). But hey, let’s agree this isn’t Harry Potter. I could read a Harry Potter book in eight hours. I am certifiably obsessed with HP, which is why I’ve dedicated countless hours of my life to reading and rereading Rowling’s magnum opus in its entirety. I do not carry the same affinity for Collins and her games, but I did already pick up the second book, and I am avidly following Katniss and Peeta back through the woods.

I’ve had nightmares the past couple days—bloody ones, where people get killed in horrible ways. I had one where I had to say goodbye to Jake because I was one of the chosen tributes, and I knew I was going to die in the forest. I haven’t slept well at all; I blame The Hunger Games. It is an all-encompassing story. It has guts, gore, love, and revolution. I enjoy all these things.

Even more enjoyable, the writing is better than expected for the young adult genre, but as I’ve noticed, YA is no longer written for teens. I believe many YA authors are now targeting adults, and for that, I love them, because young adult literature is so honest—so black and white. There are good guys; there are bad guys; pick your side. If only life were so simple. In YA books, life is that simple. Hoozah!

Will I complete this trilogy I once dreaded? Of course. Like I said, I’m already almost finished with book two, Catching Fire. I blame my friend Sam. She’s the one who talked this book up, and she’s the one who went absolutely bonkers when she heard I was reading The Hunger Games. We had a deep, at-length discussion over dinner this past Saturday night about Collins and her characters. It had been a long time since I really delved into a work of literature with a good friend. It had been too long. For that, I thank The Hunger Games.

Really, I have to thank The Hunger Games and Suzanne Collins in general. You’ve made a fan out of me, a doubter. You’ve also made fans of millions of kids who wouldn’t be reading without you. Like the worlds of Harry Potter and Narnia, the world of Panem is showing kids that reading can be fun. I’ve been reminded as well.

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The Dark Rose is Fantastically Freaky

I know Erin Kelly can write a good thriller; she already did with 2011’s Poison Tree—a book that was sometimes so dark, I had to put it down and watch something silly like The Golden Girls for an hour. Not that I’m complaining. If there’s one thing you know about me, it’s that I love eerie stuff, especially when it’s done as well as it is in Kelly’s most recent opus, The Dark Rose.

The Dark Rose (or The Sick Rose in Britain) is a gradually revealed mystery that follows two characters: nineteen-year-old Paul and middle-aged Louisa. It’s a toss-up who has more baggage. Paul, once a hopeful youth who dreamt of becoming a teacher, witnessed his best buddy kill someone; now, he’s been put into the English version of Witness Protection until the trial, when he will be the star witness.

Louisa’s story isn’t as clear. We know she did something bad when she was around Paul’s age, but we don’t know what—which is obviously part of the fun. The two characters meet at a crumbling Elizabethan garden, where they work together to bring the garden back to its former glory. Paul reminds Louisa of a face from her past (which adds to her mystery), and surprisingly, they strike up a not so innocent relationship that could ruin or redeem them both.

Just like The Poison Tree, The Dark Rose jumps around in time—a lot. In the hands of a lesser author, this would be jarring. In the masterful hands of Kelly, it flows seamlessly toward a climactic conclusion.  From 1989 to 2009 (with occasional stops in between), we see how the characters of Paul and Louisa end up at the garden. We see how they became who they are and why Paul fears the sight of blood.

Blood? Yes, blood. Although The Dark Rose might be a story of romance and redemption, it is more so a story of death. The first actual death we see is that of Paul’s father in one of the many trips from the present to the past. This scene (gulp) still makes me sick just thinking about it.

That’s the funny thing about Erin Kelly. On one page, she perfectly paints the peaceful picture of an early morning in England or a snowy day in mid-winter. On the next, there’s blood spurting everywhere. It’s amazing how quickly she can switch gears; it is a testament to her strength as a writer and storyteller.

You’re not going to know what happened back in 1989 until the end of The Dark Rose. You’re not going to figure the whole thing out until the last page—which is excellent. Kelly never says too much, but she leaves her reader fulfilled every time. She has a steady hand with mystery writing, but not in the clichéd way of the usual who-dunnit. Kelly’s mystery exists mainly in the heads of her characters. They create their own crimes. They create their own prisons. They also create their own vindication … although I doubt it’ll be in the way you expect.

If you want a beautifully written, fantastically freaky psychological thriller, look no further than Erin Kelly’s The Dark Rose. It’ll keep you up at night, and it might haunt your dreams.

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An H and Five Ws with Dark Rose Author Erin Kelly

Erin Kelly is the acclaimed British author of The Poison Tree. She’s so awesome Stephen King gave her an endorsement. How cool is that? I loved her first book, so I knew I had to read The Dark Rose when it hit American soil. Well, I read it, but you have to wait for the full book review until Thursday. Until then, allow me to introduce Her Royal Awesomeness Erin Kelly.

Bio: British author and journalist Erin Kelly is thirty-five. She studied English and European Literature at Warwick University and was a staff writer on the UK edition of Cosmopolitan for three years. Her first novel, The Poison Tree, was published by Viking in 2011 and has been shortlisted for the 2012 Strand Magazine Critics Choice Award. Her second acclaimed psychological thriller, The Dark Rose, is out now in hardback, and her third will be published next spring.  She lives and writes in North London with her husband and three-year-old daughter.

How did you become a published author?
I’ve been a journalist since I was twenty-two, but all I ever really wanted to do was write fiction.  But as a freelancer, I kept putting it off in favour of paid work. Then, in 2008, I got pregnant, and that was the focus I needed. For a few months, I eased off on my freelance work and spent my days furiously writing the book that would eventually become The Poison Tree. When it felt like a book, I did things the old-fashioned way, by writing off to agents with a short cover letter, a synopsis, and three sample chapters.

And then … silence. Months of it. I can’t even say I was rejected by agents, because in many cases they didn’t even bother to acknowledge receipt of my manuscript. I eventually signed with an agent a few weeks before my baby was due. We made a few structural changes to the novel, inserting a prologue at the beginning to pull the reader immediately in and polishing the characterisation. There was a flurry of interest from several London publishers (in fact, I did one interview with a potential editor while I was in labour), and it looked promising, but no offer was forthcoming. They all said the same thing: they weren’t sure how to market my book. Was it crime, literary, or women’s fiction? No one could agree. And the cliffhanger ending, which I had thought so clever, had polarised opinion.

I let myself wail and wallow for about twenty-four hours. Then I thought hard about what to do next and concluded that they were right about the ending: it was too open. I was always clear that this was suspense fiction, and one of the silent covenants the author makes with the reader in that genre is that there is a reward of some kind in the final pages. A few loose ends are good, necessary even, if the book is not to appear too contrived, but the big question that has been driving the novel so far does need some kind of resolution.

The new conclusion I came up with felt completely inevitable and right to me, and it actually became the major talking point of the book. What I was sure about was that I didn’t want to compromise on my tone or my style to make it easier for publishers to pigeonhole me into a genre. I could have stripped away some of the descriptive passages to increase its appeal to hard-boiled crime fans or played down the plot to pander to the literary snobs, but my voice is my voice: it’s the one thing I can’t change or compromise.

The gamble paid off: six months after those initial rejections, I had four publishers fighting over me. The funny thing was that the reason they loved the book was the reason it had been rejected at its first outing. Instead of seeing it as a book that didn’t belong on any particular shelf, they saw it as crossover fiction, something that could appeal to several different markets at once. It was a good welcome to the arbitrary and mercurial world of publishing.

Who is your favorite author?
(Deep breath) William Boyd, Ira Levin, Maggie O’Farrell, Kate Atkinson, Jonathan Safran Froer, Chris Cleave, Kate Atkinson, Barbara Vine, Jean Rhys, Evelyn Waugh, F Scott Fitzgerald, LP Hartley, Tana French, Ian McEwan, Donna Tartt, Lesley Glaister. What my favourite writers have in common is that they can all make words dance and create true characters, but they aren’t afraid of strong narrative. I love to be caught up in books where I can’t wait for the next chapter to find out what happens, but the language makes me want to linger over every page.

What genre do you prefer reading?
I get sent a lot of books in my own genre, literary and psychological thrillers, from publishers who want to promote new authors, so the balance is skewed in that direction. But it would be dreary to read only books like mine; it would be like limiting myself to one food group. I don’t have a favourite genre and there is no genre I wouldn’t read.

One thing I am finding is that the more I write fiction, the more appealing non-fiction becomes as a kind of palate-cleanser. Iain Sinclair and Peter Ackroyd have both written brilliantly and beautifully about my home city, London. Bill Bryson’s travelogues are my go-to comfort read. And I love rock biographies: Keith Richards’ Life, Dylan’s Chronicles. If you haven’t read Just Kids by Patti Smith I urge you to order it as soon as you’ve finished reading this interview.

Where do you spend your writing time?
In a sloping study above my bedroom. It’s not really a room so much as an attic with a skylight and a desk in it. You can only stand up in the dead centre of the room, and the acute corners between the wall and floor are slowly filling up with books. I think there’s a wasp’s nest behind one of the piles. I’m scared to investigate.

When have you ever wanted to give up on being an author?
I won’t deny that those early rejections were disheartening. Now that I have a couple books behind me, I’m plagued by different sorts of doubts. I feel like throwing in the towel about three-quarters of the way through every book. There seems to be an unavoidable phase where it’s nearly there, but there are one or two conflicts I just can’t seem to resolve. By then I’ll be about nine months in, tired and drained and longing to stop plotting and get on with the really fun bit, playing with the language. But it’s like running: you can’t stop when you hit the wall, or you’ll never finish the race.

Why do you think books are important?
There’s a complicity involved between reader and writer that doesn’t exist in, say, film; reading makes you do some of the work, from imagining the characters’ faces to finding your own themes and messages between the lines. That, along with the hours invested in a book, mean that the rewards are greater, deeper.

No other medium is as intimate as books. Nothing beats that borderline uncomfortable feeling you get when a writer describes an experience or opinion or emotion that you thought was unique to you: suddenly the roles are reversed and you feel like you are the one being read. I suppose only song comes close to doing that.

For more about Erin and her amazing books, visit http://www.erinkelly.co.uk/.

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I Finally Finished Atlas Shrugged

A 1200-page book (small print, hardcover) is a challenge, especially when it’s a book like Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. But everyone kept telling me to read it—you have to read it, Sara—so Santa brought it for Christmas. Santa: I’m not entirely thankful.

Atlas Shrugged is Rand’s fourth and final novel. She considers it her magnum opus. At literally 1168 pages, it better be. Published in 1957, it received mostly negative reviews, but somehow it has survived into a modern era, where even most pop culture novices have heard the phrase “Who is John Galt?” Last year, the first half of the novel was brought to the big screen. Part Two will follow this year, although Part One got panned, so I doubt I’ll sit through either, especially since I read the book, and damn it, I need a break.

What’s the plot? Hell if I know.

Okay, it’s about Dagny Taggart—a heroine with some guts. She runs a transcontinental railroad when the story gets rolling. Everything could have been hunky-dory, if not for the government getting involved. The problem starts in a small automobile company. The owners suggest that workers will no longer get paid by tenure or ability; instead, they will get paid based on their “need.” Pregnant wife? You get more money. Sick parent? You get more money.

Culture devolves from here, and soon, Dagny has to worry, because industry is put under the same rules. Somebody with a friend in Washington needs oranges in Idaho? Okay, screw the anti-social guy who needs steel in Colorado; we need to send oranges to Idaho! Soon, all the brilliant people begin to disappear, burning their businesses to the ground before they leave. Where are they going? Will the world survive their loss? Will the stupid government a$$holes get what they deserve? You have to read—all 1168 pages—to find out.

I’ve never read Ayn Rand before, so maybe I should have warmed up on something a bit smaller, like Fountainhead. However, since I’m a speed-reader, I thought, why not? Why not Atlas Shrugged? Well, it took me two months and countless headaches. Let us consider the good, the bad, and the ugly.

The good? Atlas Shrugged is undeniably important—the problems, conflicts, and ideals it portends. It’s downright creepy how spot-on Rand was back in 1957. What she foresees in the world of Dagny Taggart is slowly becoming the world where we live today, and it’s scary. I had nights when I couldn’t read, because I would get so angry, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Right now, typing, my chest grows tight at the thought of what Atlas Shrugged suggests. In this—the message itself—Rand’s opus is a must-read, because only our knowledge and strength of character can save us from a future akin to Dagny’s hell on earth.

HOWEVER. I haven’t discussed the bad/ugly. Rand’s writing is so slow-moving and convoluted, I could have skipped half the book and still felt just as enlightened in the end. I know critics will argue me on this point. People who love the book down to their toes will say, “Oh, no, it was all important. Every word. Every phrase. Ever speech.” Speaking of speeches? There’s a 90-page speech that could have been cut down to about 30!

In college, I was taught to respect my reader’s intelligence by not over-telling. Rand did not learn this lesson, obviously, because she treats her readers like the uneducated government employees she depicts. It was so frustrating, I sometimes wanted to quit. I didn’t, of course, because I no longer want people to tell me that I have to read Atlas Shrugged. I kept on going. My concern is that Rand was using all those big words just to massage her own ego: Oh, Ayn, you’re such a lovely writer. You’re so brilliant and educated. Oh, yesssss …. More words. More! Or maybe she’s just too smart for me.

Here are my conclusions:

• For the next three months, I will be reading fluff literature and avoiding the news.
• Ayn Rand may have been a prophet.
• The message of Atlas Shrugged should be taught in every school, to every demographic nationwide, because it is PRICELESS and IMPORTANT.
• That said, I do not suggest you read Atlas Shrugged. Please save yourself the trouble, and (gulp—you’re going to hate me for this) read the Cliff’s Notes.

Yes, Rand left us with a big ol’ book with a truly imperative agenda. The end results are invigorating. I did feel hopeful—and fearful of our country’s future. When I watch the news and hear about little girls being penalized for selling lemonade without a permit, I want to disappear with all the smart people, too. However, I can’t; not yet. It’s not bad enough out there yet, is it, Ayn? Is it? Oh well. Who is John Galt?

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Yoga Bitch is Awesome (even the part about pee)

I count myself lucky to have randomly stumbled upon Suzanne Morrison’s book trailer for Yoga Bitch: One Woman’s Quest to Conquer Skepticism, Cynicism, and Cigarettes on the Path to Enlightenment. I connected with her. I, too, am a yoga freak, writer, and past lover of cigarettes. Therefore, I just had to read her book … and I was not disappointed.

Yoga Bitch follows twenty-five-year-old Suzanne as she first discovers yoga, becomes obsessed with yoga, and ends up joining her Seattle-based yoga instructors on a teachers’ intensive program in Bali, Indonesia. When we first meet young Suzanne, she is preparing to move to New York with her boyfriend, which will happen upon her immediate return from Bali. Or will it?

Yoga Bitch is tailored toward the yoga practitioner, but it’s funny for everyone. There is an entire segment about farting in yoga class that I read to my husband, because he’s always worried someone will fart in yoga class and he won’t be able to keep a straight face. There’s another scene where Suzanne swears she has joined a cult, because all the other yoga students in Bali drink their own pee every morning. It’s good for you or something. Right. Ick. Ick. It’s a very dramatic issue as the reader must wait and wonder if Suzanne will become an odious piss-drinker, as well, someday. You’ll have to read it to find out.

Although Yoga Bitch is hilarious, it is not the comedy that makes this book great. It’s the honesty. At the age of twenty-five, Suzanne is lost. She thinks she knows what she wants, but she’s not quite sure. She doesn’t quite believe in God, but she wants to. She’s not certain of her relationship and moving to New York, but she feels like it’s what she’s “supposed” to do. I also love the fallen idols of Suzanne’s picture-perfect yoga instructors, Indra and Lou. Nobody is perfect, despite appearances, and Yoga Bitch proves it.

Beautiful Bali.

This book is a voyage. Not only do we get a beautifully depicted look at the earthly heaven that is Bali, but we get to see one lost twenty-something get closer to finding her way. I’m not saying everything is peachy by the end, but everything is perhaps closer to peachy. But such is life. It’s like in City Slickers when Jack Palance says, “You city folk! You spend 50 weeks a year getting knots in your rope. Then you think two weeks up here will straighten it out.” It’s not that easy, even during a yoga intensive in Bali, as Suzanne realizes. She changes a lot over the course of her trip, but it isn’t in the way she thought she would.

Its self-deprecating realness is what makes Yoga Bitch such an outstanding read. Everything isn’t tied up in a pretty red bow at the end, but as the reader, we’re left hoping that someday everything will be.

Check out Suzanne’s website at http://suzanne-morrison.com/.

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