Tag Archives: summer

the summer shortlist

Today, at least, there are 175 books on my to-read list. Since that’s a lot of books, I usually come up with a summer shortlist of the books I’m planning on reading the soonest. Some of these are books I’m just too excited for, others are books I already have out from the library and so I feel obligated to read them, some are because I feel like I need to read grown up books before I spend the next three years engrossed in children’s and YA lit, and others are just because I think they’ll be good prep for graduate school particularly because they are children’s and YA, and especially because they are “diverse,” meaning that they either feature or are written by PoC or LBGT people. I’m also on the lookout for more biracial literature, and I keep meaning to do a second post on the subject, this time about the humor approach to biracial narratives. I’ll work on that, and on more love letters to my favorite things in Tucson.

So here’s my shortlist, in no particular order, along with the main reason for moving them up to the shortlist.

American Nerd by Benjamin Nugent – An anthropological history of the nerd? Oh, yes. I’ve actually already started reading this one, so I’m sort of cheating by putting it on this list.
Seeing Stars by Diane Hammond – Because I already have it out from the library, and it looked interesting, and probably I read a review of it somewhere.
The Three Incestuous Sisters by Audrey Niffenegger – Because I already have it out from the library, but also because I really love the way she does literary speculative fiction.
Wild Seed by Octavia Butler – Again, lately I’m really interested in speculative fiction. Plus, I loved Kindred. Plus, it’s nice to know that all sci-fi and fantasy is not white.
The Wilder Life by Wendy McClure – Because the second I heard about this book, I needed to read it, because I was absolutely obsessed with Laura Ingalls Wilder as a child.
The Gastronomical Me by MFK Fisher – Because I just discovered food writing, and it’s amazing.
Food Matters by Mark Bittman – See above. Also, I have it out from the library.
In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens by Alice Walker – Got it from the library. Diversity. Literary theory I’m not yet familiar with. Can’t wait, even though Walker kind of scares me a little.
The Great Night by Chris Adrian – Retelling of Shakespeare? Yes, please.
A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn – Because my knowledge of American history is pitiful and Palin-esque, thanks to my being a terrible student of history (I blame the crappy way it’s taught in the US, with nothing but rote memorization at the expense of actual engagement) and having bad teachers. Also, diversity points?
Men Without Women by Ernest Hemingway – Because I think it’s time I read more of the authors I really enjoyed in my American lit class last summer.
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz – Because I’ve been meaning to read this ever since I finished Drown. Also, diversity!
Balthazar by Lawrence Durrell – Because if I take any longer to start reading that, I’ll have to read Justine again, and then I’ll never finish the Alexandria Quartet.
Dreams of Significant Girls by Cristina Garcia – Because I just learned about this book, and boarding school + remembrances of Bloomability + PoC characters = I need to read.
The Pleasures of Children’s Literature by Perry Nodelman – Because the director of my MA recommended it, so I think it would be good to read it before my first semester.
Sweet Valley Confidential by Francine Pascal – I’m so curious. Plus, I got a free copy from the publisher, so I should respect that and read it.
Who Fears Death by Nnedi Okorafor – Because I bought it awhile ago and it looks fabulous and has gotten great reviews. And again, speculative fiction by a non-white writer is hard to find. Plus, it’s YA.

There is a link on the right to my full to-read list.

If you want to diversify your reading, you should do so, because that’s awesome. Plus, you can enter this giveaway at Diversity in YA, where Cindy Pon and Malinda Lo are doing fabulous, fabulous things for better representation in YA novels. This summer they’re holding a reading challenge. I can’t wait to join their ranks when I’ve published a novel.

grown-up time, and the living is pleasing

Summer is my favorite time of the year, even though 108-degree temperatures are not fun. Summer evenings in Tucson are beautiful, and this year there aren’t even any junebugs to ruin it (although the fact that they are nowhere to be seen is probably indication of some awful climate change issue). I love summer, and usually it’s characterized by a feeling of renewal, relief, and regained stamina for my writing. Usually it involves international, or at least transcontinental, travel. Usually it involves supplementing my education with summer school or enrichment of some kind, like swim team when I was young or surrealism classes at the Poetry Center when I was in college.

This summer isn’t bad, but it’s certainly not magical or refreshing in the way I’m used to. First, it’s not summer vacation. It’s just summer the season, and I’ve been out of school for six months, and I’m still just a working stiff. Still working various part-time jobs, but I’m actually really enjoying my main job. This is surprising to me, because my main job is teaching, and I’ve always insisted that I will never be a teacher. But not only do I like it, but I’m finding curriculum planning to be awesome, and I now know that teaching middle or high school (or even community college, since what I’m teaching now is a high school program at the community college) is a viable backup option for me that I might actually be decent at.

Still, the fact that I teach all day and then go work in an office doing administrative tasks means that I feel impossibly grown up and like the magic of summer is lost to me. Where are the dusk breezes? Where are the poems? Where are the new friends? Where are the mentors? Where are the airplanes? Where is the currency conversion? I’ve traded those things for paychecks, happy hour with coworkers, time with my family, podcasts, and mornings at the gym. I’m early to bed, early to rise. I cook food and eat dinner alone. I cross stitch and watch DVDs from Netflix. And mostly, I like it.

It strikes me this summer that even though I thought I would leave everything from high school behind, pretty much the only people I remain close with, and who I see myself being lifelong friends with, are people I went to high school with and people who live far away because I only know them from summer programs. These people are my life and my summer. In many ways I feel as if my life started in January, after college graduation, and I don’t really dwell on anything that happened before. I like living my life this adult way, but it’s also exhausting, and now I really can’t wait for September. Small bouts of adulthood before the real thing in a few years seems like a good way to go.

and now it is summertime

I can tell that it’s summer, because I cannot breathe, and I think I’m coming down with a cold.

In the meantime, though, I’ve finally updated the playlist here, and I’m writing a short story that I think might actually be good, and I’m catching up on all the books I have checked out from the library.

My goals for this summer, aside from the obvious ones of reading and writing a lot, are these:

  • -Improve my vocabulary through daily emails from dictionary.com and daily playing of Free Rice.
  • -Watch all the movies on my Netflix queue before I move to Boston and no longer have a Netflix account. I’ve been so into Hulu that I never watch films anymore, and the queue is mostly foreign films and documentaries that I really should watch.
  • -Try out most of my new recipes and make sure I am good at cooking before I move.
  • -Play the piano for myself, not just when I’m teaching.
  • -Continue to purge my room of meaningless possessions.
  • -Exercise at least five days a week.
  • I start my teaching job on Tuesday, and I’m really excited. This scares me, because I have always insisted that I will never be a teacher. Everyone in my family is a teacher, and extended family and friends are as well. Not that being a librarian or working at an educational nonprofit is that much of a rebellion, but everyone I know knows that I would be terrible at teaching, because I have no patience. But substitute teaching and other informal teaching jobs this year have made me really start to like it. Yikes.

    my annual summer reading review

    I read 42 books/plays/bound documents this summer, plus 10 stories (some with essays and criticism attached), plus a smattering of other essays, magazines, poems, etc. I will list them here with a vague detail regarding “genre” in that broad, stupid sense that I hate, which defines style and audience more than actual genre.

    1. Ampersand: Stories by Rachel Richardson (literary fiction)
    2. Swimming by Nicola Keegan (literary fiction)
    3. Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist by Rachel Cohn and David Levithan (this was a reread) (YA, literary)
    4. Betsy-Tacy by Maud Hart Lovelace (this was a reread) (children’s, historical fiction)
    5. Betsy-Tacy and Tib by Maud Hart Lovelace (this was a reread) (children’s, historical fiction)
    6. Narrative of the Life of Henry Box Brown by Henry Box Brown (memoir, history)
    7. Cum Laude by Cecily von Ziegesar (general fiction)
    8. Betsy and Tacy Go Over the Big Hill by Maud Hart Lovelace (this was a reread) (children’s, historical fictio)
    9. Betsy and Tacy Go Downtown by Maud Hart Lovelace (this was a reread) (children’s, historical fiction)
    10. Fairy Tales by e.e. cummings (children’s, fantasy)
    11. Brokeback Mountain: Story to Screenplay by Annie Proulx, Diana Ossana, and Larry McMurtry (short fiction, literary fiction, screenplay, essay)
    12. “Sweat” by Zora Neale Hurston, “Characteristics of Negro Expression” by Zora Neale Hurston, and criticism by Cheryl Wall (the first story was a reread) (literary fiction, short fiction, essay, anthropology, criticism)
    13. A Certain Slant of Light by Laura Whitcomb (general fiction)
    14. Long Day’s Journey Into Night by Eugene O’Neill (play)
    15. Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke (non-fiction, on writing)
    16. Granta: Sex (literary fiction, short fiction)
    17. Home By Now by Meg Kearney (poetry)
    18. Sisters Red by Jackson Pearce (YA, fantasy)
    19. How to Keep a Sketchbook by Michael Woods (non-fiction, art)
    20. A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams (play)
    21. John Hedgecoe’s Complete Guide to Photography by John Hedgecoe (non-fiction, art)
    22. Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy (literary fiction)
    23. Daisy Miller, A Study by Henry James (literary fiction)
    24. “The Beast in the Jungle” by Henry James (literary fiction, short fiction)
    25. As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner (literary fiction)
    26. “The Yellow Wall-Paper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman (literary fiction, short fiction)
    27. “Editha” by William Dean Howells (literary fiction, short fiction)
    28. “Chickamauga” by Ambrose Bierce (literary fiction, short fiction)
    29. “Petrified Man” by Eudora Welty (this was a reread) (literary fiction, short fiction)
    30. “The Magic Barrel” by Bernard Malamud (literary fiction, short fiction)
    31. “Everyday Use” by Alice Walker (this was a reread) (literary fiction, short fiction)
    32. “Recitatif” by Toni Morrison (this was a reread) (literary fiction, short fiction)
    33. Dutchman and The Slave by Leroi Jones (Amiri Baraka) (play)
    34. Heaven to Betsy by Maud Hart Lovelace (children’s, YA, historical fiction)
    35. Betsy in Spite of Herself by Maud Hart Lovelace (children’s, YA, historical fiction)
    36. Other Electricities by Ander Monson (literary fiction, essay, experimental)
    37. Gypsy Hearts by Robert Eversz (general fiction, thriller)
    38. Waiting for Leah by Arnost Lustig (literary fiction, historical fiction)
    39. Woman Hollering Creek by Sandra Cisneros (literary fiction, short fiction)
    40. The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins (YA, sci-fi)
    41. Betsy and Joe by Maud Hart Lovelace (children’s, YA, historical fiction)
    42. Betsy Was a Junior by Maud Hart Lovelace (children’s, YA, historical fiction)
    43. Blues for a Pretty Girl: Poems by Paulette Beete (poetry)
    44. Betsy and the Great World by Maud Hart Lovelace (children’s, YA, historical fiction)
    45. Betsy’s Wedding by Maud Hart Lovelace (children’s, YA, historical fiction)
    46. Fear of Flying by Erica Jong (literary fiction)
    47. The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown (general fiction, thriller)
    48. The Wild Things by Dave Eggers (literary fiction)
    49. Winona’s Pony Cart by Maud Hart Lovelace (children’s, historical fiction)
    50. The Polysyllabic Spree by Nick Hornby (non-fiction, essay)
    51. On Becoming a Novelist by John Gardner (non-fiction, on writing, memoir)
    52. The Every Boy by Dana Adam Shapiro (literary fiction)

    I think this is probably my most successful summer yet, in terms of experiences, new friends, learning, and books read. The books I’ve read are the best group I’ve read in a summer in a long time, I think, because of the sheer scope and diversity–I read across genres, styles, audiences, and times. I am pleased with myself. I just wish I didn’t have to start reading for school quite yet.

    My favorites would be, in no particular order, Jude the Obscure, Daisy Miller, The Hunger Games, Ampersand, On Becoming a Novelist, and Heaven to Betsy. But really, there are only a few that I think were ultimately a waste of my time. I feel like I accomplished a great deal of work this summer, academically, intellectually, creatively, and personally. It’s been really great. I just hope I can get through the semester.

    brand new start, gonna give all my love

    I think I’ve accepted the fact that the main function of my blog is not to be read by many people or to be a series of cultural analyses meant to entertain and provoke thought but simply to be a running record of my attempt to write my own autobiography. So is my journal. The more I don’t think about it, the more I think about how I’m writing it for a future audience. I won’t kid myself and think that I have a ton of followers, and even though I like to think that I want followers (because I do, and because I enjoy being the center of attention when it’s about my talents, rather than being the center of attention, say, at a ceremony or something), I clearly don’t care that I don’t have any, because I keep posting.

    School starts tomorrow, but I only have one class on Mondays. It will be interesting to see how I deal with my four literature courses (Spanish, British through 1660, Victorian, and non-fiction) given that lately I am incapable of reading books as anything but a writer critiquing something for workshop.

    Tomorrow I’ll do my official tally of books read this summer. It’s an awesome number, but I hope I can add one more to it if I manage to read the rest of one of the two books I’m reading at work tomorrow. It all counts until I walk into my first class at 3:30.

    you think you’ve gone as far as you will ever get

    I just realized that I don’t have to have a reason to write. I can just sit down and do it, not because I have just been inspired by something or because I have a brand new idea that I don’t want to forget. I should just write, because right now I have the time and I have lingering ideas that I need to get started already, and I have stepped away from the stuff I workshopped last month for enough time that things won’t feel too hurtful (not that they ever really did; I got great comments and I was proud to find out that I have officially become thick-skinned–in fact, often during my workshops I found that I wanted to participate because I had forgotten it was my writing being critiqued), so I should just write. School starts a week from Monday, and then I’ll be doing so much schoolwork and GRE studying and grad school applications that now is the time.

    I’ve been reading a lot, which is wonderful. Thursday I read an entire book, Friday I read an entire other book and started a book of poetry, and today I read an entire children’s book and started a new book of prose that I’m halfway through. So I’m getting shit done, and it’s wonderful to be reading so much. I have no qualms about not hanging out with many other humans before school starts. It feels great to be a literary hermit. But I should write, too. I need to get back into the habit. So what I’m doing right now is sitting at a desk, which is something I have not done, aside from in a classroom, for years. Except I actually started doing it in Prague. But that was only last month, so essentially this is still the first time. I think people are supposed to use desks to write, so I’m going to try that, because generally my desk is just a storage facility. This will be good for my back and also good for my writing. I hope. And next week I will be here, rounding up everything I read over the summer and counting it all. I have a feeling it’s a pretty kickass number of books.

    Writing, writing, editing, and rewriting! And outlining! Here I go!

    it doesn’t get better than home

    After a few traveling snafus, I am home, relatively over my jetlag, and happy to be here. I feel different than I did when I left. Calmer. More focused. More driven. Less dramatic. Unconcerned. Pudgier, too, but that will change when I start working out again. And less attached.

    I am home again, but I am not in the same place I was when I left. I have a new job, and I am happy not to have the dark cloud that was the unhappy prospect of returning to a job where I no longer felt necessary, wanted, or useful. I have been reading a ton since I got home, and I am pretty disinterested with my Netflix account and even the wireless I just installed at my parents’ house, where I am now living again until I graduate and move to my grad school city. I have only seen one of my friends since being home, and that made me really happy, and there are a few more I want to see, but I don’t have this incredible need to see people. I’ve never had that, really, but where I’ve lacked an actual want to be around other humans all the time, I’ve always had a feeling of obligation to do so. Now I don’t. Though that’s not to say I don’t love people, obviously. But it’s nice to feel as if I can just be myself and be with myself, and with my family, and in general not feel the need to be doing something, whether it is a social activity or homework or a job activity or a phone call or any of the many chores I seem to assign myself for no good reason. This is, I hope, the end of my workaholic days. At least until I am actually someone who works. And, given my academic plans, that won’t be for close to a decade.

    At the moment I am listening to the new CD I had waiting for me in the mail when I got home (signed unreleased Greg Laswell album “Good Movie”) and culling through my to-read list, which has gotten way too far over 200 books again. Damn Prague for making me want to read and write so much. More and more I am relishing the idea of getting to the point where I can be a writer, one who can cite her inspirations and influences and who spends months reading biographies, philosophies, novels, poetry, whatever, all in the pursuit of understanding the themes and issues she wishes to explore in her next opus. I am finding it especially hard to delete things, even though 215 books is an impossible endeavor when you consider the rate at which I add new books to the list (many, weekly) and the rate at which I read (less than many, monthly), because of that fantasy. There are books I know that I will not read anytime soon, but I don’t want to forget them; or I already own them; or I know everybody has read them and I need to, too; or I want to read them both for personal interest and for the way they will inform projects that I think would be interesting.

    Also, something I realized in Prague, and just lately in general. I don’t like to say that I’m writing “a novel.” It has too many implications, and it’s also been an unfair thing to say as of late, because for the last academic year I did no real work on any of my “novels” whatsoever. Also, it makes people who are not writers ask things like, “what is your novel about?” which is an annoying and unanswerable question. I realized that I always say “project.” Because I work on too many things at one time, and because I work in different genres and also try to combine genres. Because before I’ve published at least one “book,” I don’t think I have the right to use a word like “novel.” Do other people feel this way, or am I just silly?

    hyperlinked photo journalism or, it is so unfair that europe has castles and america does not

    I find picture-taking and photo-uploading completely exhausting and unexciting, which is why I don’t do it more often.


    Karoline and me with Arnost Lustig after hearing him speak


    You gotta love a city with a giant metronome at the top of a hill.


    Especially when the view from the metronome is fabulous.


    Bars with awesome names must be remembered always, even if you do not go inside them.


    It is important to know that the real Budweiser is not made by Anheuser-Busch.


    I spent this weekend in the rain in Cesky Krumlov


    Many Czech buildings use sgraffito, which from far away looks almost like a layer of wallpaper laid over the actual edifice.


    The Cesky Krumlov castle!


    The castle there has bears!


    This is the view from up there.

    meat and bones

    Wow. Somehow I only have a little over a week left. I’m ready to go home, but I’m also just getting the hang of things in Prague and want to enjoy that. And I have an unbelievable amount of work to do. The weekend trip I signed up for (and paid $95 for) was a bad idea.

    I’ve taken a decent amount of side trips already, and I’m still adoring my classes. I have a lunch conference with my fiction professor, Robert Eversz, who is awesome–one of those people who will just talk and then all of a sudden you’ll realize that he’s teaching you something really useful. Our workshop is particularly for people writing novels, which means not only do we critique and talk about literature, but we also storyboard everyone’s submissions, talk about extended narratives, etc. I’m loving it. I’m learning. I’m inspired. I actually want to write a lot, and I do it. It’s been at least a year since I’ve been a writer like I used to be. I feel good about where I’m headed. I have three fiction projects I feel really good about.

    My side trips have been to Kutná Hora, Dresden, and today to Terezín, but I don’t think I feel like writing about that. Leaving that space in my journal empty seems like the most justice I can do to it, at least today. In Kutná Hora is a church with decorations made from the bones of 40,000 people.

    Yup.

    in which i remember why i am here

    The other day I went to a cafe alone for lunch and got to overhear a couple arguing in French. And I understood bits of it. Later, it turned out that the woman also spoke Czech and the man also spoke English. Today, in a gift shop, I got to hear a girl and her mother speak Portuguese and English (Portuglish?) and understand a lot more.

    Last night I got to sit on my windowsill (!) and listen to the rain. I think that’s something I’ve wanted to be able to do since I could read, because books always take place in settings where there are attics and basements and secret passageways and window seats. And the weather is always such that opening a window would not make your house unbearably hot. Rain in Prague is different from rain in Tucson, which is heavier, harder, and more driven. Tucson rain has a goal. Prague rain just rains. And there was no lightning, at least not that I could see. It’s lovely. But I hope it’s monsooning when I get home.