Archive | Uncategorized

A few years ago I went with my brother to hear Orson Scott Card read at Kepler’s Bookstore. I’m a huge fan of his Ender books and their message of communication and empathy. While I didn’t particularly enjoy Card’s presentation (I think my brother and I escaped before it was over), he gave one writing tip that I loved: the number of personalities you develop in your story is exponentially larger than the actual number of characters. Let me explain.

Take, for example, Hansel and Gretel. The fairy tale has five characters: mother, father, Hansel, Gretel, and witch. The mother views Hansel and Gretel as a burden — two more mouths she must feed, but to the witch they are a food source. Gretel acts dependent, complaining and whiny when she feels Hansel is responsible to find a way out of the forest, but she becomes strong and resourceful when she needs to rescue him from getting cooked. Each character has multiple personalities, depending on the other character with whom they are interacting in any given scene. See what I mean?

Some novelists are experts in character creation. In her debut novel, Born Wicked, Jessica Spotswood manages to create more than a dozen well-rounded characters whose relationships with each other are fluid, revealing often unexpected facets of their personalities and showing their growth. Amazing feat.

Born Wicked tells the story of sixteen year-old Cate Cahill as she wavers on the brink of adulthood. Cate lives in a world where women are inferior to men, and witches are feared and persecuted. Cate and her two sisters are witches, yet each of them has a different relationship with their magic. While Cate believes being a witch is wicked, one sister chooses to flaunt and the other to appreciate this gift. Once she turns seventeen, Cate must choose one of two options open to women: marry and become her husband’s property, or join the Sisterhood and dedicate herself to study.

But Cate promised her mother before she died to watch out for her sisters. She feels responsible for keeping her sisters safe and their magic hidden. She is torn between trying to protect the people she loves and the future that fate seems to force on her, and as always, suffering brings about personal growth, personal revelation, and many changes.

This is a perfectly crafted novel. Elegant, mesmerizing, and bewitching, filled with life-like, easy-to-love characters. Gushing moment alert: when, when is book two in the series coming out? I can hardly wait. I loved loved loved this novel! I can’t wait for the second one to come out. I want to know what happens to Cate next. I’m worried about her. I’m worried about her sisters. And I totally suspect that their father knows they are witches, even though they’re keeping it a secret from him. This the best kind of writing, when the characters stay with me long after the reading is done, like good friends with whom I want to keep in touch.

I’ve always been fond of the Hebrew song “Good people by the roadside.” In the song, Naomi Shemer, (the lyricist and singer) describes the gifts which strangers gave her: a song to sing on her way, their name, a book a hundred years old. I love the idea of meeting with kindness by the roadside, of our bubbles of life interacting, merging for a brief moment and then continuing each on his or her way. I love the idea that I can learn something from everyone I meet, that each of these moments of connection, no matter how brief, can be a reason for me to grow.

Yesterday I flew home from Rochester to San Francisco and got to experience firsthand the discomfort of winter travel. Heavy snow caused delays in and out of Chicago where I had to switch planes. My first flight was three hours late, which made me miss my next flight, and though I was lucky to get on the very next flight out, the plane malfunctioned, and the flight left three hours late after a gate and airplane change. As I drove home from the airport, exhausted and hungry, it suddenly struck me: despite the potentially frustrating day, I had met only with kindness, cheeriness, and patience from my fellow travelers and the airport personnel.

There was the United agent at the gate in Rochester who patiently spoke with each and every passenger and booked a back-up flight for them, just in case, all the while reassuring them individually that most likely they will not miss their flight at all. There was the kind agent at the gate in Chicago who told me the chances of getting on the first flight out were very high and not to worry and then called me, not ten minutes after, to give me my new ticket. There were the air hostesses who updated us with how the work progressed on the airplane and who kept smiling no matter how much longer their own work day stretched because of the delay.

And there were also the couple with the adorable four year old twins who were going back home, the older woman who listened patiently to the traffic-violation stories of the guy sitting next to her, the Indian family traveling to Omaha, the jovial businessman with the unexpected backpack on top of his roller suitcase, the ever-laughing Kiwi who found herself hours late for the one flight that leaves to New Zealand, where she was going to assist her injured mother. Yet everyone was patient. Everyone kept upbeat, hoping that this time when we get on the plane it will actually take off and get us closer to our final destination.

Fourteen hours after I left I finally reached my home. Yes, I was tired, yet somehow also inspired by these people and grateful for this experience that showed me yet again how many good people there are in this world.

Yesterday I finished reading Incarnate by Jodi Meadows. The novel came out at the end of January this year, and I had read so many adoring reviews of it that I simply had to buy myself a copy. And my high expectations were more than met.

Incarnate takes place in the world of Range, where the same million souls have existed and were reborn for five thousand years, keeping their memories from all their past lives. Babies born remember being adults, remember dying many times over. There aren’t really children in Range. Not in the playful, exploratory meaning of childhood. And everybody in Range knows everybody else. There is no mystery to who people are and little room for personal development and growth.

One day, however, one of these souls fails to reincarnate, and Ana is born. Ana longs to find out why she was born and whether she will be reincarnated. The only eighteen year old in a world where people carry the experiences and knowledge of thousands of years, Ana is a breath of fresh air, a girl with a new outlook, new questions, new ideas. And as such she is also a danger.

After eighteen years of living with a mother who did not care for her and treated her as an inferior being, a nosoul, Ana leaves for the main city, Heart, where she hopes to find some answers to her questions. Acutely aware of her newness in this old and jaded world, Ana views everything that happens to her through the eyes of a child.

Like a child, Ana takes responsibility for events which might or might not be related to her. She thinks it is her fault that the soul of Ciana was not reborn, and that she must be the one to discover why and how that happened. She blames herself for failing to save more souls during the dragon attack later in the novel. She feels that it is up to her to discover and understand why sylph and dragons attack Heart.

And also like a child, she is the only one who sees the people around her with new eyes. Through the kaleidoscope of Ana’s mind, the people of Range are free of five thousand years of history — they can be anything they want to be.

On her website, Jodi Meadows predicts that the second book of her trilogy will come out in winter of 2013 and the third in 2014. I am having a hard time curbing my impatience till the books come out. I don’t often read novels at the forefront of literary development, and I find myself wondering what did readers of Ursula K. LeGuin’s Earthsea Chronicles do while waiting for the next book? How did Tolkien readers manage the wait for the end of the Ring Trilogy? Seems it can be lucky to come late on the scene of a great work of literature. Then again it can be a good fortune to be one of the first explorers in a new land.

If there is one question I worry about, it is whether I’m good enough. I should probably not have been surprised to discover that my kids similarly question themselves. But I was. Surprised and dismayed. I’d like my kids to grow up to love themselves. After all, I love them and think they are amazing and wonderful. How could they possibly think otherwise? But can I teach my kids to love who they are when I constantly judge myself?

So when my son said, “I’m bad at playing my instruments,” those few words shook me to the core. I love that Uri plays the clarinet and violin. I can barely get a sound out of the clarinet when I try to blow into it, and the violin is so complicated an instrument! Yet Uri took to both with an ease that defies my comprehension, especially considering how extremely different the clarinet and violin are.

After exclaiming and disclaiming (“You play both very well!), I decided to approach the subject from a different direction. I asked Uri what it meant to him to play well. Playing well, was his response, is playing like his teachers or on CD. Wow, I guess he also got the perfectionism gene from me.

I felt inadequately prepared to discuss this. Comparing himself to professional musicians when he had been playing less than a year seemed absurd. I decided to ask Uri’s clarinet teacher, Jeff Sanford, for help. Perhaps he can convince Uri that he plays well. To my surprise, Jeff approached the subject from a different angle. Rather than looking at Uri’s playing as a whole, Jeff tackled one song at a time. He explained that “playing well” is a relative term. The first time Uri plays a song he might struggle, but after a few practice sessions he plays that song well.

I don’t know if Uri understood this completely, but this way of looking at the world was an AHA! moment for me. I judge myself constantly on my performance as a whole. It does not occur to me to say, “Today when I sat with the kids doing homework I did very well.” Instead, when I mess up in one instance (like being impatient before they go to sleep), I say “I’m a bad mother.” I generalize. And almost always negatively.

I wish to apply this idea in my life more often. I hope I’ll remember it and tell myself, “Today my writing flows.” Or, “Today I was very patient and loving to the kids.” Or, “When I listened to Eden before she went to sleep I enjoyed feeling like a good mother. I did well.”

Perhaps it’s time to put generalization to rest, to stop putting myself down. Time to appreciate myself for the little things I do and forgive myself for my mistakes. And while I practice this self compassion, I hope the kids will learn to love and appreciate themselves as well. Nothing like personal example to make this wonderful change.

If you’re interested, this is Jeff Sanford’s jazz website. I don’t know if he has any other life advice on there, but there is good music. To learn more about self compassion, check out this great website from Kristin Neff.

I can’t help but be bothered by how important a role beauty seems to play in falling in love. I much prefer Fiona falling in love with Shrek. I love that Spiderman is not some ultra-handsome boy and how Superman wears glasses and is a total geek. I like it when the emphasis is on character, not outer looks.

Yet so much love is based on beauty. I googled “beauty research” and came up with the following interesting facts: people tend to believe that physical beauty is a sign of inner beauty. They tend to like those who like them and to think that beautiful people are smarter, more successful, and happier.

The research also says: “Interestingly, while physical attractiveness appears to be the biggest correlator and predictor (for choosing a mate), it rarely appears as most important when directly asked of subjects. Attributes like personality and character usually rank higher. Either people are not aware of how important physical attractiveness is in their selection criteria, or they are not fully honest.”

Yet I believe Belle fell in love with the Beast before she knew how he looked as a prince.  I believe that she could fall in love with the Beast because of his character, the inner beauty of his soul. But if the Beast could not talk, if he struggled with his wild side and could not show his true human nature to the girl, would she fall in love with him then?

I found this dilemma in the White Bear of Edith Pattou’s East whose wild side is stronger than his human part. The Bear does not remember his human name, and Rose, the girl he brings to his castle hoping she will break his enchantment sometimes suspects he looks at her as prey. Every night the bear climbs into bed beside Rose but does not talk to her or try to touch her, and he rarely talks during the day either. When Rose uses the candle given her by her mother and sees the bear in his beautiful human form, she does not yet realize that she is in love with him, but she feels an obligation to undertake the journey to rescue him from the Troll Castle east of the sun and west of the moon.

Because of his lingering silence, the White Bear remained a mystery to me throughout the novel. I could only pity him, and I wondered– did Rose fall in love with him because of his beauty that her candle revealed or because of some inner trait which escaped me?

Perhaps resisting physical attractiveness’ role in falling in love is not the way, but I will argue that beauty is not just what shows up on our body or face. It can be influenced by character, charm, a smile. I find people’s looks often “grow” on me as I get to know them, and then beauty really becomes “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Or maybe it’s the beholder’s eye.

Many years ago, in a land far away (Israel), a friend told me: “You managed to develop a sense of humor no one but you understands.” At the time, I felt quite proud of this, as I believed my sense of humor manifested my much superior intelligence and abilities. The world was just not good enough to understand my sense of humor. Now, however, it occurs to me that what he said could be taken as less than a compliment. Had he implied that I have no sense of humor?

This is a frightening thought. Could it be true? Could I, in fact, be lacking in this important mental power? Am I innately unfunny? Can I still be taught?

This morning I found Ashley Clark’s blog post on how to make readers giggle. I took a look at her four-point advice, hoping that perhaps she could help me soar beyond elephant jokes and into full-potential giggly fun.

Not surprisingly, I found Clark’s tips funny and promising. She starts with “the more specific you are, the funnier something becomes.” I won’t quote the full example she gives, but it’s funny! I also won’t quote just a part of it, because, you know, it’s the specifics that make it so much fun. However, here’s a really good detail elephant joke. Q: What’s grey, yellow, grey, yellow, grey, yellow, grey, yellow, grey, yellow, grey, yellow? A: An elephant rolling down a hill with a daisy in its mouth!

“Establish an expectation for the reader, and then surprise them.” I can think of a good example to this in my Anna Mara novel, but it would be a spoiler, so I can’t tell you that. But here’s a perfect expectation-and-surprise elephant joke. Q: How do you fit five elephants into a VW Bug? A: Two in front and three in the back.

Clark’s third point frightened me: “your quirks make excellent fodder for your characters.” Believe me, all my flaws are distinctly not funny, because they all have to do with being really afraid that people will laugh at me. They tend to be extremely unamusing. At least for me. To distract you, however, from finding my flaws, here’s a fabulously funny elephant joke. Q: What do you call two elephants on a bicycle? A: Optimistic!

“When in doubt, use a kid, a grandmother, or an animal.” And there you have it! We are back to the elephant jokes. Q: Why did the Elephant stand on the marshmallow? A: So she wouldn’t fall in the hot chocolate.

In conclusion, and in case you would like to read more elephant jokes, here is where I found mine. Maybe one day, by chance, when I’m not trying so hard, something funny will find its way out. For now I think I’ll stick to elephants. And that joke about the two Frenchmen who find the poopoo in the street. But that’s for another time.

I don’t deal well with stress. Symptoms include headaches that won’t go away, tension in the shoulders and a feeling of depletion. Mostly I stress about whether my performance will measure up to my expectations when I feel I have no control over the result.

I’ve been thinking about stress management during my Wilderness First Responder re-certification course this weekend. I wanted to do well, to show myself (and everyone else) that I can assess a patient carefully and knowledgeably under pressure. And I knew the class was objectively stressful — medical emergencies are frightening, and a calm rescuer can make a huge difference to a patient and anyone else on the scene.

I came to the WFR class this weekend with a strong sense of inferiority. Most people who take the class are guides, rangers, group leaders or search-and-rescue personnel, and I knew that most likely I’d be the only one who never used the training in the past two years. I also expected to be one of the oldest in the class. My first training course had 30 people out of which twenty-six were under 22 and three were over 60. You can guess where that left me. I felt acutely underprepared for this weekend, despite rereading the entire book and scoring well on the sample test. How can theoretical knowledge of wilderness medicine compete with actual field experience? The prospect of the class agitated me beyond belief.

A first glance on Friday revealed I was right. Four EMTs, lots of young people (though not quite 22 anymore), and nearly all but me needed the class for work. I was also almost the only one who had never dressed a wound. A perfect fit to my expectations. The three days of the class passed me with an impossible-to-relieve headache. On Sunday I returned home so exhausted I could barely stand up. I took a calming bath and spent the rest of the evening in bed with Jodi Meadows’ Incarnate, thankful that I now have peace and quiet for two more certified years.

From the safety of home, however, I have a confession to make. It’s possible that I didn’t quite have a reason to stress. On Sunday, after sweating for three hours waiting for the instructors to come and test me on my skills, I finally approached one and asked him why neither one of them observed me. “Oh,” he said. “We felt you were solid on the second day.”

Solid? Me?

I wish I had his confidence. I wish I could stress a little less about meeting with an emergency or at least be able to take the WFR class without hyperventilating my way into another headache. Familiarity might breed comfort if not belief in my abilities by my tenth or twentieth training. The best I can do is figure out what helps me relax at times of stress. A cup of tea might help. Or maybe a thump on the head?

I’ve been thinking about the stereotypes of the strong male and weak female while reading Graceling by Kristin Cashore. I know we no longer live in caves, and women don’t need to be defended by men, but we still treasure the idea of the knight in shining armor, and so very many male and female characters in fiction (or movies) continue to follow the stereotypical male-female balance of power.

Graceling turns these stereotypes on their heads. The novel follows the adventures of Katsa, a woman graced with the ability to kill but also with extraordinary compassion. Katsa meets Po, who is graced with knowing what people think and feel toward him. Po can sense what an opponent is going to do next, and he is also a talented fighter, though no match for Katsa.

Po is deeply attuned to the emotions of every living thing around him. He can sense not just humans but trees and animals. Katsa is independent, powerful, a strategist. She can fight hundreds of men and come out unscathed, seemingly immune to pain. It seems impossible that they fall in love with each other, and yet when the moment comes it feels natural. Still, I find myself wondering: can a man truly love an invincible woman so strong that he will never have to be protect her? Who, on the contrary, will likely be the one protecting him? Can they overcome the conditioning of the strong man and weak woman?

Po believes he can, telling Katsa, “you’re better than I am, Katsa, and it doesn’t humiliate me.” Then he adds, “It humbles me. But it doesn’t humiliate me.” He loves Katsa for herself, accepting her indestructible powers. He seems happy, though, to offer her protection against King Leck (who they suspect is graced with charm). Katsa decides “She would accept his protection… if truly she needed it. …And she would protect him as fiercely, if it were ever his need.” She understands she needs to relax her supreme independence and allow for a balance of protection, a give and take.

I can’t help but wonder where the author will take this precarious balance. I am about halfway through the novel and find myself fascinated by this intricate male-female interaction within the story line. I’m looking forward to the moment Katsa must face her vulnerabilities, as I hope will happen. I hope there will come a point in the novel when accepting help is no longer a matter of thought but of action.

I love that there are novels like this, where the woman requires no protection, where she is strong, smart and perfectly capable of fending for herself and surviving even the most extreme conditions. I love Katsa’s compassion, her need to be more than a killer, her desire to help others become as independent and strong as she. But the novel is most amazing, to me, in that it rewrites conventions, a strong woman, a feeling man. The rest is just love, two halves meeting and recognizing each other because of their differences and similarities, as they are.

Growing up, I had glasses and snot running down my nose. I was not the most popular girl in class. I was down there, at the bottom of the popularity ladder, with Zohara (who had the misfortune of being overweight), Oshrit (overweight and tall), and Oshrat (spectacled with curly hair).

As a young girl, I did not understand that Zohara, Oshrat, Oshrit and I could become friends and be popular to each other. I am ashamed to say that I did not like them very much. I had one best friend with whom I am grateful to be friends to this day.

And I had books. I read eight books a week, sometimes more. I devoured anything resembling a book, including Ma’ayan Encyclopedia which had stories of great discoveries and story versions of Shakespeare’s plays. I read walking to school and while doing homework (you put your notebook on top of the desk and Ivanhoe in a partially opened drawer just beneath so you can slam it shut quickly in case your mother comes into the room).

Today my social life is better than when I was a kid. I have less need to run away to books, but I still absolutely love it when I find a book so engrossing that for a while I forget I have a life. This happened yesterday while reading Anna and the French Kiss by Stephanie Perkins. Young love, romance, Paris, kissing in the park while rolling on the grass — what can be better than that?

The novel is extremely well-written, but best of all: Anna thinks intelligent thoughts! I could understand why she makes her decisions. More than that: I knew her decisions were made out of deep compassion and love. Ms. Perkins allows Anna to find the conflict, simply and clearly, within herself: “Do we talk about it? Or do I act like it never happened?” Anna asks herself after St. Clair tells her he likes her as more than a friend. “He needs friendship right now, not relationship drama. Which is why it’s really crappy that it’s become a lot harder to kid myself that St. Clair’s attention hasn’t been as flattering–or as welcome–as it has.”

Anna welcomes life with an open heart. When she is afraid or confused, she admits it. She knows when she is in love, and she loves enough to be there for St. Clair without demanding anything in return — true unconditional love. Loving him, however, doesn’t mean she won’t tell him off if she thinks he is taking advantage of her.

I loved this novel. I was sad when I finished it, and it is hard to say goodbye. But the great thing about novels is that I can always read Anna and the French Kiss again. A good book, like good wine, never grows old, and this book is one of the best antidotes to a bad day I have read in a long time.

Yesterday I read a twitter discussion about the current lack of bad girls in YA fiction. It got me thinking about my early love of eighteenth century British novels, in which bad boys, or rakes, as they were called, abound.

To me, the ultimate bad boy is Lovelace of Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa. Smooth-talking to outright lying, Lovelace maneuvers his way into the heart of the sweet, innocent Clarissa and then betrays her. Poor Clarissa. For one thousand pages she is almost forced to marry a repulsive older man and kidnapped by Lovelace. In the second one thousand pages of the novel, after Lovelace (shockingly!) rapes her, she slowly and agonizingly dies. Lovelace’s remorse and his offers to marry her fail to change her mind. Life without her virtue is unthinkable. We the readers know the underlying tragic truth: Clarissa loves Lovelace despite his unworthiness, and he, dishonorable though he proves himself to be, loves her back.

Another Richardson novel, Pamela, features an immorality and innocence clash, but the end is happier. Pamela, a servant in a young man’s house, succeeds in overcoming her rakish master’s advances, and he finally marries her.

Clarissa and Pamela are moralistic tales meant to teach girls the danger of giving up their virtue through the use of characteristic bad boy good girl stereotypes. But not all eighteenth century characters were written under these premises. Moll Flanders by Daniel Defore (the author of Robinson Crusoe) centers around a bad girl. The title of the novel gives an idea of how bad Moll is: “Twelve Year a Whore, five times a Wife (whereof once was to her own Brother), Twelve Year a Thief, Eight Year a Transported Felon….” Moll’s exciting (yet by eighteenth century standards quite depraved) free-spirit adventures sadly end by the novel’s finale. She marries her last husband and is reunited with her brother and their son.

John Cleland’s eighteenth century novel Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure is another example of a bad girl novel whose main character, Fanny Hill, is a happy and successful prostitute. While this novel does end on a redeeming note (Fanny marries her first love and settles down), it is filled to the brim with modern and sexually explicit descriptions which Fanny gives in a straight-forward, clear and unembarrassed voice.

It is possible that readers find bad boys more attractive than bad girls. I am not qualified to judge. But I admit I did always like Lovelace better than Moll. Then again, it might just be because Moll deserts all eight of her children in the novel. Lovelace, though, always struck me as a tragic character. He does not realize till it is too late that what he really wanted was Clarissa’s love, and desperate and inconsolably remorseful, he allows himself to be killed in a duel with Clarissa’s cousin. How sad is that?