New Century Reading

Laurentian Divide

When I posted about the first book in Sarah Stonich's Northern Trilogy, Vacationland, I noted that it was flawed, but I liked enough of it to read the next book. So I did; Laurentian Divide is the second book. And like the first, I found it flawed, but likable. Mostly.

We're back to Hatchet Inlet, the fictional setting of Vacationland, and many of the same characters are here. The story is centered, somewhat, on widower Alpo and his fiance, Sissy, and Alpo's adult son Pete. But like the first book, there are many other characters, a few too many. The story told between these three is plenty to fill a book. 

The story opens promisingly at the town diner where Hatchet Inlet's residents are getting worried: the eccentric Rauri Parr, who is the last resident allowed to live in the adjacent Reserve (think Minnesota's Boundary Waters), has not appeared in town since the ice went out on the lake. The residents worry: What happened? Is Rauri dead? He lives in a very remote place, difficult to get to, should someone check on him? (Side note: Rauri appears to be a tip of the hat to Dorothy Molter, the last resident of the Boundary Waters.)

Great opening, but then the book immediately goes into backstory, something that happens over and over--and over and over--again. It was so frequent that I found myself pulled out of the story, sitting back and thinking, Did I need to read this scene, did I need this knowledge, just now, just here? And the answer the majority of the time was: No. I did not need that info. Worse, the backstory had the effect of diminishing the tension in several key scenes. If all this backstory was so important, I think the book would have been better with a chronological structure.

It's a shame, because the parts of the story told in the present time were really good, really interesting, and I loved many of the characters. But between the backstory and the too-quickly and too-neatly-tied-up ending, I ended up disappointed.

Yes, I'll read the third book, because I want to see how this all plays out, and the parts that are good are really enjoyable. But I'll come at it with a bit of concern.

Eternal Life

Rachel began life over 2,000 years ago, and is still around, thanks to a vow she took to give God her death in exchange for saving the life of her young son, who was very ill. At the time, it seemed like a great idea, but in reality not so much; the son eventually grew up and died anyway, while Rachel can't die. Ever. Even when she tries to die, she awakens as a younger version of the self she tried to kill.

She's not entirely alone. Her son's father, Elazar, took the same vow. It's tricky, because Elazar may be the son's father, but he wasn't Rachel's husband. He's obsessed with Rachel and stalks her throughout the centuries as they both marry again and again, have more children, see times changes, move to different continents, and yet always, always see their families age and die.

This is such a great premise, and author Dara Horn starts well. The book travels back and forth in time, and Horn doesn't bog down in historical details, even though she's clearly done the research. But even though it started promisingly and hooked me right in, by the end (and it's not long, only 233 pages), it didn't feel fully developed. Rachel is a bit one-dimensional; there are scenes between Rachel and Elazar that began to feel repetitive; and even though Horn went back and forth in time, I think she really wanted to write an entire book about the First Jewish-Roman War, and ended up conflicted between doing that and exploring the themes of immortality and why that's a positive or a negative. She probably could have done two separate books, one more focused on the immortality aspect which would have helped flesh Rachel out more thoroughly. Still, an interesting topic, and hopefully someone else could pick it up and run with it.

Raymie Nightingale

Raymie is a little girl in 1975 who is highly motivated. Her father has just left her mother for a dental hygienist. Raymie is sure that if she can just win the Little Miss Central Florida Tire contest, then her picture will be in the paper, her father will see it, and realize the error of his ways. But to do that, she needs to learn how to twirl a baton. So she signs up for lessons with a local woman who, in her day, was quite the baton twirler. 

At the first lesson, she meets Louisiana Elefante, who also is desperate to win the contest for her own reasons, and Beverly, who has no interest in winning; in fact, her stated goal is to sabotage the whole event.

Obviously it's the start of a beautiful friendship.

Well, in Kate DiCamillo's deft hands, it is indeed just that. DiCamillo is a wonderful children's writer, and it's been too long since I've read anything by her. I was inspired to get this from the library after seeing that she has a recently released sequel starring Louisiana Elefante (who is incredibly endearing), and I had forgotten how wonderful DiCamillo is as a writer. Sure, this is quirky, but it's also deeply believable.

I've seen some discussion lately about whether or not children's books should be sad, or address hard issues. To which I say: Why wouldn't they? I mean, I'm all for The Wonky Donkey (which I bought after seeing the video and giggling myself silly). But for every kid who has a grandmother who reads them The Wonky Donkey, there's a kid whose father left with a dental hygienist, or whose mother hits them, or whose grandmother cares for them and they're not exactly getting enough to eat. Pretending those things don't exist doesn't help the kids who are in those situations, nor does it help the fortunate kids who aren't becoming empathetic and caring. 

So DiCamillo does a tremendous service by presenting these kids and their less-than-perfect situations, and making them personable and giving them things to care about that are on the surface less stressful. It's accessible for young readers and doesn't give graphic scenes of child abuse, etc., but presents all these ideas very matter-of-factly. And along the way, we have three young girls, all very different, who learn as much as they can handle about the realities of life--including the idea that sometimes, the thing you think you want isn't really what you want, and that unexpected grace can show up from odd sources sometimes.

I'm totally ready to read the sequel. I loved these girls and ached for them, and yet felt like DiCamillo is equipping them to rise above their circumstances and become thoughtful, smart, resourceful adults. 

Macbeth

A few years ago, Hogarth Press (yes, the press begun by Virginia and Leonard Woolf) launched a series of novels based off the plays of Shakespeare. I thought this was a jolly idea and purchased a few with the thought that first I'd read the play, then the novel.

Well, you know how that goes, right?

But finally I did take a novel and play off the shelves. I reread Macbeth (which I still love), and then launched into Jo Nesbo's take on it. I've read some Scandinavian crime novels, not many, and none of Nesbo's before, although I know he's a wildly popular author.

Nesbo stays pretty true to the Bard. All the major characters are here--Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Duncan, MacDuff (here just called Duff), Banquo, Fleance, Malcolm. And the plot pretty much follows what Shakespeare created, with Lady Macbeth urging Macbeth to kill Duncan to hasten Macbeth's leap into power. Being a novel (and a long one, 400+ pages), Nesbo has more time to flesh out some of these characters, which is nice.

That said, it takes a long time for this book to take off. A loooooong time. I think part of that is the updated setting. Shakespeare had only to establish that Duncan was king and Macbeth wanted to be king, and boom--you've got a motive and the beginning of a murder. But Nesbo sets the story in an unnamed town in the 1970s and centers it in a police department. There's a whole lot of convoluted backstory about why the head of the police department is so powerful in this town, and can barely (or not at all) be controlled by other governing bodies, including the town's mayor and the federal government.

Getting all that set up takes time, and it's not that exciting. Once it's in play, the book picks up pace considerably, and Nesbo does a great job of examining motives, honor, drive for power, etc. 

The only other quibble I had was Nesbo kind of blew it with the witches. Hecate is a character, a powerful drug lord, and that works. But the three witches make a tiny, not terribly believable appearance, and then they're gone. I feel like he could have done a lot more with them.

All that said, I wasn't tempted to quit reading, and it was interesting to compare and contrast the source material with the update. I'm definitely ready to move to another one. Which one? Hmmm...The Tempest/Hag-seed by Margaret Atwood or King Lear/Dunbar by Edward St. Aubyn? And I'm very much looking forward to Gillian Flynn's take on Hamlet, once that's published.

Dread Nation

Boy howdy, this was a fun romp. What we have here is part horror novel, part historical novel, and part social commentary, all deceivingly packaged as a teen novel. 

Jane McKeene is a young African-American woman who is born at the outset of the Civil War--and the beginning of the rise of the undead. Her mother is a light-skinned black woman who passes for white, until Jane is born with considerably darker skin. While the War is taking apart the slavery system, there's a nefarious plot to move these young black people, females and males, into special schools where they can be trained to fight zombies, all while protecting white people. (Note: Also being hauled from their homes for this training are Native Americans.)

Jane is good at fighting the undead; what she's not so good at is the etiquette she's required to learn in order to serve as an Attendant (a zombie fighter assigned to a specific white person to protect them). She's also too smart for her own good, and she's quick to realize that her supposedly safe zone in Baltimore and environs is perhaps not as safe as advertised. People are going missing, and undead sightings in what was thought to be a clear zone are increasing. But when Jane comes too close to the truth, it brings dire consequences.

This is a super fun October read. But it's more than just a breezy zombie novel. Author Justina Ireland does a dandy job of adding social commentary that's as relevant now as it was during the Civil War, and she does it without slowing the narrative down or becoming preachy. Prickly, somewhat arrogant Jane is a heroine for the ages, someone you wouldn't want to get on the bad side of in real life, but someone you'd really want on your side during a zombie uprising.

But Jane also has a tender side. Separated from her beloved mother, she writes frequent letters (not allowed at school, but Jane is nothing if not devious) to her, and longs to graduate from school and return to her mother's plantation. Ireland excerpts these letters at the beginning of every chapter, a very smart way to define that relationship without, again, dragging down the narrative.

It sounds like this is the beginning of a series, and I'm definitely up for that. 

The Staked Plains

A few years back, I read and was knocked out by Stefan Kiesbye's Your House is on Fire, Your Children All Gone. For this October, I decided to try another of his novels: The Staked Plains. It's short--166 pages--with fairly large font, so it could conceivably be read in a day (I managed it in two).

It starts off promisingly with a young woman, Jenny, moving to Querosa, New Mexico, with her husband, who has gotten a job teaching at a third-rate university. Querosa itself can barely be described as third-rate; it's a dusty, worn town in a seemingly permanent drought with a McDonald's and 60 churches. 

Jenny brings something new to the community: She's a seer. She can see things in people's future. Not surprisingly, once she sets up shop, people are curious, and sometimes afraid, of her. But often the curiosity wins out, and they pony up their $20 to see what she can tell them.

But as Jenny gets to know the community better, there are unsettling doings, power plays by the few wealthy people, desperate acts by the many not-wealthy people, an ominous feral child who shows up to eat and drink with Jenny's dogs. And Jenny herself is drawn into a local circle of community power that puts her in danger.

This started off so well. Author Kiesbye creates this fictional town and makes it blisteringly real. The characters are initially well drawn out and interesting with all their flaws. But then it just--I don't know, devolves somehow. The story of Jenny's visions, initially the main force of the story, pretty much disappears. She makes some choices that don't seem to make sense with who she is, or who she's been presented to be to the reader. The ending, while disturbing, doesn't quite ring true either. 

So yes, I was disappointed. But it did make me think I should dust off my copy of Your House is on Fire, Your Children All Gone to reread.

The Gate to Women's Country

This book was published 30 years ago, but it holds up very well--unfortunately well--in today's political climate, especially in terms of commentary on male/female relationships. It takes place 300 years after events known as "the convulsions" occurred that basically destroyed much of life as we humans know it today. The survivors banded together and created a series of communities run by women, with the men training in military tactics and living in garrisons outside the women's community. Twice a year, the men are allowed in for a wild carnival, in which the women have sex with them in order to continue the species. The exception are the men who don't want to be warriors. They can be allowed back into the women's world if they're willing to work as "servitors." 

Stavia is the main character, and we see her from early childhood through to her late 30s. Her mother, Morgot, is on the Council that runs the community. Stavia grows up to be loyal to her community, with one exception: a young man named Chernon. As she grows into her teens and is subject to the ravages of adolescence, it's hard for her not to fall under his spell. But what she doesn't know is that, while a horny teenager himself, Chernon has ulterior motives that are more menacing.

Author Tepper has developed a realistic-feeling world here, where humans are still, for better or worse, human. They struggle to grow enough food and manage their limited resources, they deal with the politics of any extended community, they cope with the societal restrictions that have kept them alive all these years, some of them are shallow and focused on trivial things. But along with that realism, there are hints that there is something other-worldly going on too, and part of the intrigue of the book is following that storyline.

I really liked this book, for the most part. It was a bit long in places, but that paid off when a major plot twist (totally believable) occurs late in the story. There's some graphic violence, but it's done sparingly and isn't gratuitous. There's a brief side story about what happened to gays, and let's just say it's not terribly enlightened, but this book was, again, published 30 years ago. Mostly, though, the story of how civilization slogs on is interesting and thought-provoking. 

Mrs. Caliban

What a strange, unsettling little book this is. I read it in one sitting, and it's quite a ride. The book opens with Dorothy seeing her husband out of the house as he goes to work, a ritual they've obviously repeated many times, to the point that their marriage isn't what it could be. But Dorothy has a little secret; she's started hearing things on the radio that are meant directly for her, not for anyone else.

Then it's announced that a monster has escaped from the local Oceanographic Research facility and is considered dangerous. When the monster shows up in Dorothy's kitchen, however, she's not scared. It seems almost as if she's been waiting for this her whole life.

At just 111 pages, this zips right along. We see Dorothy, her husband Fred, and her long-time best friend Estelle. All the characters are drawn with broad strokes, and the action, such as it is, is fairly episodic and matter-of-fact.

But what kept me going is how the book started rather humorously, with Fred not capable of getting out the door in the morning without forgetting several things and Dorothy being on autopilot, to the surprise of her just accepting the arrival of the monster (Larry, in case you were wondering), to her becoming romantically involved with the monster.

And then. Things change, and get much, much darker. It's all still told in the same episodic, matter-of-fact voice, which makes it even more unnerving.

I won't give spoilers. I saw some of the events coming, not others. There's also a fair amount of social criticism involved. The book was originally published in the early 1980s, but a lot of that same social criticism still applies today. 

I'm not sure who I'd recommend this book to, and yet I feel like recommending it. It's so odd, unsettling, peculiar, and I think best read at one fell swoop, the way I did. A good October book.

The All of It

This is a remarkable short book by an interesting woman, one of only two that she wrote. I will say, though, that if you really like a lot of plot in a book, this one's not for you. But if you're OK with a quiet, contemplative character study with some thoughtful discourse on morality, this is stellar.

The All of It refers to a confession of sorts that Enda Dennehy makes to her priest, Father Declan de Loughry. They're both in their 60s, and Enda is mourning the death of Kevin Dennehy. Father has also known Kevin to be Enda's husband, but at his deathbed, he learns that that's not quite the case; Enda is Kevin's sister, not wife. The lie and the implications outrage the good priest, but then Enda tells hers and Kevin's story. 

That makes up the bulk of the book--Enda and Father talking about Enda and Kevin, and their past. I won't give spoilers about how this situation came to be, but it's interesting, and it raises a lot of questions about lies and truth, and what constitutes morality, all of which the priest has to deal with. 

But more than that, the priest has to deal with his own internal struggles, his own loneliness in his chosen vocation. 

So: 145 pages, not a lot happens, mostly people talking bookended by the priest going salmon fishing. But there's a lot of beauty and thoughtfulness in this short book, and this is one I'll return to.

 

Hannah, Delivered

I became curious about this novel because I'm reading another of the author's book, Living Revision, about revising writing, and I'm liking it quite a bit. 

Hannah, Delivered is a story about Hannah, a young woman lacking direction in her life until she witnesses the work of a midwife in a hospital where she has a clerical job. Shadowing the midwife, Hannah realizes that this is what she wants to do with her life: Become a midwife and help women deliver babies in their homes.

She goes to school in New Mexico, overcomes a great deal of fear, and learns the intricacies of delivering babies. Eventually she returns to her native Minnesota, where she wants to open a practice in the small town she grew up in, where her father is still the pastor of the local church. There are just a few problems, though; Minnesota at that time did not allow midwives to do home births, and the local doctor is not too excited about being her accomplice.

The novel doesn't reach the quality of the nonfiction, unfortunately. There are some places where the writing is lovely, but other times it tips over into preachiness. I mean, I worked with midwives for both of my children, although I delivered in hospital both times (my choice), so I'm already pro-midwife. But even for me, some of the prose got a bit pushy.

Then there's the structure. The book opens with this kickass sentence: "Have you ever noticed that a midwife's quickest route to fame is screwing up?"

That's a grabber of an opening, but unfortunately, the rest of the book doesn't quite take you there. She tells us right away that she ends up in legal trouble, so we wait and wait to see how that plays out, but in the end, that just fizzles. We know what caused her legal troubles, but not how they played out, how it affected her career going forward, how her small town did or did not stand up for her. If she hadn't opened the book this way, I might not have cared; the story of becoming a midwife is (when not preaching) quite interesting. But that opening set some big expectations that weren't met. 

The title bothered me too, as it's so very obvious what the metaphor is as soon as you learn your narrator is named Hannah and she wants to be a midwife. There is some shadowy discussion of a family secret that has a big effect on Hannah's mother, who died before this book begins. Time and again Hannah references having a difficult relationship with her mother, but we never see it. When the big secret is finally revealed, it made me wonder how the book would have played out if the secret had been revealed early on, giving Hannah a different way to develop throughout the book. And I wished that had happened.

Still, Andrews' writing has some real beauty in spots, and like I said, I'm enjoying the writing book. So I'll keep my eyes open for other fiction from her.