Oh! The drama!

Day after day I tuned in. I would agonize over missing an episode and would… sadly… rearrange my schedule so I could be home in time.

Well, the good news is this: I grew up. I graduated. I got a job… one that would require office hours well-past my beloved 3:00pm time slot. And aside from a sick day here and there or a vacation day or two, I haven’t tuned in to General Hospital since.

Maybe it’s because I know I could pick it up again and see the same storylines repeated that I’d feel like I hadn’t missed anything.

Or maybe it’s because I knew I’d get my drama-fix elsewhere…

***

I just finished month 2 of The Dare—having previously read The Scarlet Letter, I spent the last four weeks reading all 34 sultry, electrifying, suspenseful, and… yes… dramatic chapters of Wuthering Heights.

Do you want to know what I said after turning that last page?

I miss General Hospital.

Though the pages placed me in the soggy moors of historic England, I feel like I just spent 28 days back in the small-hospital town of Port Charles, NY, where Carly’s whining had Sonny (the mobster) and Jason (the backup boyfriend) running around like fools trying to prove their love and appease the fantasies of the girly main character.

But instead of Carly, I was reading about Catherine, ten times more selfish than her Port Charles counterpart.

Instead of Sonny, I was reading about Heathcliff, likewise mobster through and through.

And instead of Jason, I was reading about Edgar Linton, the emasculated second choice who despite being a genuine person, always appeared weaker than his competition.

Much to the chagrin of classic literature enthusiasts, I think the writers of General Hospital were better at the love triangle than Ms. Emily Bronte. Sorry, Emily.

WHAT?!?! Ooomigoodness. You didn’t just say that. I KNOW you didn’t.

Oh, but I did, dear readers. I did.

And I won’t apologize for it.

I had hoped to adore Catherine, but she was just a little too self-absorbed. I wanted to admire Edgar, but he was just too wimpy. And I really wanted to fall in love with Heathcliff, but he was just too… too… too… what?

Miserable? Yep.

No good? Sure.

Selfish? Absolutely.

Egomaniacal, begrudging, attention-loving beast? Yeah, that about covers it.

An enchanting name will only take you so far, Heathcliff, and though I still dream of using your alluring and completely romantic moniker for my firstborn son (barring any serious objection from my future husband, of course), the fact of the matter is… I don’t like you.

Now don’t get me wrong, readers. The book wasn’t all bad. The language was fantastic and I am still marveling over the writing (See Quotables: Wuthering Heights). But I had a hard time respecting the aforementioned characters, the plot was too dramatic and suffered under the weight of the selfish rants of these characters, and said-rants made the entire story completely unbelievable.

And therein is the problem. Though I fully admit to dreaming about the happily-ever-after, I do so because at least part of me believes that it can be true; that there IS such a thing.

Isn’t that true, though, of ALL fiction enthusiasts? Somehow, some part of them wants to believe that what they are reading could come true. They want to escape from their life (which likely pales in comparison to the lives they live inside the pages of books) and experience something other than what they know. Because they adore that life, long for that life, and—for at least a couple hundred pages—can experience that life.

When a novel becomes unbelievable, it falls out of that realm of experience. And, at least in the Cat’s eyes, falls out of the reader’s minds.

I’m sure I’m a better-read person for having finished Wuthering Heights, but it’s not a book I will recommend, nor is it one that I think I’ll remember and pick up again ten years from now. So with this less-than-stellar report, I happily move on to the March selection: Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey.

Here’s hoping for a better experience this month.

From Chapter 7

“Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves.”

 ***

 From Chapter 9

“It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him; and that, not because he’s handsome, Nelly, but because he’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and [Edgar’s] is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.

 ***

“I’ve dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they’ve gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind.”

 ***

 From Chapter 11

“Well, if I cannot keep Heathcliff for my friend–if Edgar will be mean and jealous, I’ll try to break their hearts by breaking my own. That will be a prompt way of finishing all, when I am pushed to extremity!”

 ***

 From Chapter 13

“These three awful nights I’ve never closed my lids—and oh, I’ve been tormented! I’ve been haunted! I begin to fancy you don’t like me. How strange! I thought, though everybody hated and despised each other, they could not avoid loving me!”

 *** 

 From Chapter 16

“And I pray one prayer—I repeat it till my tongue stiffens—Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you—haunt me, then! The murdered DO haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts HAVE wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only DO not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I CANNOT live without my life! I CANNOT live without my soul!”

 ***

 From Chapter 24

“He wanted all to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to sparkle and dance in a glorious jubilee. I said his heaven would be only half alive; and he said mine would be drunk: I said I should fall asleep in his; and he said he could not breathe in mine…”

***

“He said the pleasantest manner of spending a hot July day was lying from morning till evening on a bank of heath in the middle of the moors, with the bees humming dreamily about among the bloom, and the larks singing high up overhead, and the blue sky and bright sun shining steadily and cloudlessly.”

 ***

 From Chapter 30

“You have left me so long to struggle against death, alone, that I feel and see only death! I feel like death!”

“I love seeing the bookshops and meeting the booksellers–booksellers really are a special breed. No one in their right mind would take up clerking in a bookstore for the salary, and no one in his right mind would want to own one (the margin of profit is too small). So, it has to be  a love of readers and reading that makes them do it–along with first dibs on the new books.”

***

“We read books, talk books, argue over books, and become dearer and dearer to one another.”

***

“Reading good books ruins you for enjoying bad books.”

***

“We clung to books and to our friends; they reminded us that we had another part to us.”

***

“Perhaps there is some secret sort of homing instinct in books that brings them to their perfect readers. How delightful if that were true. Because there is nothing I would rather do than rummage through bookshops… I have gone to them for years, always finding the one book I wanted–and the three more I hadn’t known I wanted.”

***

“That’s what I love about reading: one tiny thing will interest you in a book, and that tiny thing will lead you onto another book, and another bit there will lead you onto a third book. It’s geometrically progressive all with no end in sight, and for no other reason than sheer enjoyment.”

***

“You know how rumors run like wildfire around the publishing world.”

***

[And a few more... because they made me smile]

“Naturally, curly hair is a curse, and don’t ever let anyone tell you different.”

***

“I prefer suitors in books rather than right in front of me. How awful, backward, cowardly, and mentally warped that will be if it turns out to be true.”

***

“I don’t much care for people–never have, never will. I got my reasons. I never met a man half so true as a dog. Treat a dog right and he’ll treat you right–he’ll keep you company, be your friend, never ask you no questions. Cats are different, but I never held that against them.”

I suppose to some people that might be intimidating. To me, not so much. That pretty much describes how I spend every month. I have my nose stuck in a book far more than any other typical activity. I turn pages instead of channels, I read novels instead of newspapers… and I love every minute of it. Scratch that… every second.

Now before your jealousy of my busy life gets the better of you, understand one thing: Contrary to what you might believe, I have experienced far more adventures in my short 20-something years than most people experience in a lifetime. By delving into the lives of the characters on the pages before me, I’ve witnessed wars, robberies, and assassination plots. I’ve been caught in both a love triangle and the Bermuda triangle. My life has been threatened by gangs, terrorism, and serial killers. I’ve been addicted to drugs, addicted to food, and addicted to men (which, let’s be honest, was a lot of fun ). I’ve been inside the minds of unwed mothers, angst-ridden teenagers, and the occasional psychopath (which, let’s be honest, wasn’t so fun). I’ve died more times than I can count… and I have lived to tell about it.   

Most recently, I have experienced the public shame of becoming an adulteress.

Oh, NOW I have your attention.

That’s right. You read it correctly. An adulteress.

And not just any adulteress, but one who had to live through the humiliating sentence applied by mid 17^th-century law…

and the even-more humiliating judgment of Massachusetts Bay villagers…

Been there, done that. And learned a lot in the process.

It was this scorn that kept me reading late into the night during the first week of The Dare. I was just as curious to see what they would say next as I was eager to see what Hester would do to embrace her punishment. As I marveled in the language and romantic names (no one exists today worthy enough to call himself Chillingworth), I found myself longing for such complexity in the books I read on any other day. Today’s novels are rather simplistic in comparison. But dig into the life of one Hester Prynne and you get pulled into debates on compassion and forgiveness, sin, guilt, blame, judgment, and… of course… a revenge so ruthless that no one since has ever outdone it.

But it doesn’t stop there. In the midst of these many themes, I lost myself in the rich symbolism… and as a result took on the persona of a woman far more scandalous than I could ever hope to be.

Symbols push this book forward and give it a message far deeper than most books I’ve read. Whether it was a rose bush symbolizing “some moral blossom found along the track of human frailty and sorrow” or an ornate, embroidered letter whose meaning was never actually named but always understood, there are pictures here that this reader will never forget.

I would have hidden my sin and withdrawn from public life, but Hester did just the opposite. Unlike Dimmesdale—who couldn’t handle the guilt he effected in himself—Hester used those seven long years to earn… of all things… the respect of the very people who scorned her.

How about that?

Though her secret stayed hidden for most of her days, her actions blinded others to the fact that there was any scandal hidden in her at all. By taking control of her punishment, she changed the very meaning of the symbol she bore. The same symbol that made her blush under the berating gazes of passers by, the letter that was eventually branded in her lover’s chest as a manifestation of his guilt, the mark that ultimately guarded her grave, was… in the end… something inspiring and even noble.

In a world where a “sufferer should never know the intensity of what he endures by its present torture, but chiefly by the pang that rankles after it,” one woman and her fatherless babe became evidence of grace.

Now that’s what I call good reading.

So… one month down, eleven to go. That’s roughly 334 days; 8,016 hours; 480,960 minutes; 28,857,600 seconds (I think… I’m a reader and writer, not a mathematician so the exact calculation may elude me). But one thing I do know as I settle into the lives of other characters, is that I hope the remaining books give me as much to ponder as this one did. 

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions. The truth is, I’m not very good at them. I might stay interested for a few weeks, but by mid-February, I’ve moved on to other projects (and have, quite possibly, completely forgotten I made any resolutions at all). But this year I have a non-New Year’s resolution. It’s more of a challenge. A dare, really. You see, resolutions have rules. And I have a hard time living by the rules. Dares are more fun. Adventurous. Doable. The challenge of a dare encourages me to write action steps and those, in turn, help me follow through.

Action Step #1: Don’t Be Intimidated.

During a recent coffee house chat, a friend of mine quoted Pride and Prejudice. When she recognized the look on my face as confusion, I had to admit… I’ve never read Pride and Prejudice. What’s worse, I haven’t read many of the classics, at least not in their entirety. Bits and pieces, here and there, for various English Lit classes, but I’ve read very few from start to finish.

“How could that BE?” my friend huffed.

It’s true. I’ve been working in publishing for several years, I’m always talking about books, and I read 2-3 books a week, sometimes more (manuscripts, galleys, book club picks, books from other publishers I read for  “market research”, Kindle books I buy on impulse… it adds up). But for someone who has built a life around books, I’ve yet to explore some of the best novels ever written.

So that’s where the dare comes in. My friend declared that she was going to make me read one classic a month for an entire year. I don’t know if it was her love of fine literature or her knowing that I read for a living, but this seemed entirely doable to her. She, in fact, insisted that by year’s end, I would be so hooked that I would want to do another year. And another after that.

I, of course, objected. A million excuses came to mind, and I immediately voiced them all, with special emphasis on one: I just don’t have time. I have blog tours to coordinate, video trailers to produce, marketing plans to write, budgets to balance, a branding campaign to finish, a fiction contest to initiate… I’m too busy.

“Nonsense,” she said. “I’ll help. I’ll pick the books for you and we can read them together. I’ll pick the easier ones first. We won’t even think about the Russians for a while.”

Russians?! Gulp.

Action Step #2: Focus On The Prize.

I did my best to ignore the doubts still circling in my head. I refused to feel intimidated so I silently focused on what I might get out of agreeing to this. But my friend wasn’t finished.

“Unless,” she continued… “Unless you aren’t up for the challenge.”

Oh. No. She. Didn’t.

In a blink of an eye, intimidation flew right out the window. And the prize—proving to her (and to myself) that I could do this—suddenly became crystal clear. My eyes narrowed into a glare as she sat across from me smirking, sipping her coffee and waiting for me to pounce. She knew me well enough to know my competitive side wouldn’t… couldn’t… say no. “Game on,” I sneered.

Action Step #3: Find Someone to Keep You On Track.

She wanted to set rules, but as I’ve already said, I don’t do so well with rules. Trying to read (or write) a certain amount of words or pages a day hasn’t worked so well for me in the past, so I had serious doubts about such rules working for me now. I’m an expert procrastinator so I put the kibosh on her giddiness right away, only acquiescing to her suggestion that she call or text me once a week to make sure I was on track.

So far, so good. This conversation happened a few weeks ago and I’m happy (and somewhat surprised) to report that I’m nearly finished with The Scarlet Letter already. My friend’s texts have been faithful, albeit somewhat taunting (this is a dare, after all).

The elderly man in the crowd knows more than he’s willing to admit. What, pray tell, could it be?

Chillingworth knows the truth. Do you?

A secret rendezvous. Would you dare?

Action Step #4: Have Fun.

Somehow, news of my little dare has gotten around. Colleagues pop their heads into my office to add their own little taunts. I walk into the lunch room at Kregel and people ask what the pick is for next month. Another friend has started the book and is reading with us. I’ve let a couple author friends in on the game and they’ve started regularly providing encouragement, as well.

But the best part is this: I enjoy reading so much more than before. And not just The Scarlet Letter (which I plan to finish tonight) or Wuthering Heights (which I will start by the end of the week). I appreciate ALL books more. Just yesterday, I was reading a romantic suspense that Kregel recently contracted (and will release later this year) and I found myself drawing parallels from contemporary characters to those who lived in the seventeenth century. I’ve looked back at the fiction Kregel has published this past year and have found new meaning in stories that were good to begin with but now sparkle. And I’m more excited than ever to search out new fiction writers and grow Kregel’s fiction line.

And all because of a little dare.  

So what about you? Many of you may have your New Year’s resolutions (or non-resolutions) in place. What action steps are you going to take to keep yourself moving forward? Have you conquered intimidation? Have you set goals? Do you know people who can encourage you along the way? Whatever project you undertake for 2010, I wish you all the best. And I DARE you to have a little fun, too.

Excuse me. Did you know I came in on the 3:15? I’ve always wanted to say that. I came in on the 3:15. I feel so important.

That’s nice, ma’am. Did you have a good flight?

I do not know if it was good. You’d have to ask the pilot that. Can you talk to the pilot? Can I talk to the pilot?

I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know who piloted your earlier flight.

Neither do I. Why don’t you know? Don’t they tell you these things? Why don’t they tell you these things?!!

There are many flights, ma’am, and thousands of airline personnel. I’m sure you were in safe hands.

…

Excuse me. Why is that loud speaker speaking Chinese? I’m not in China, am I?

We often have international passengers fly through here, ma’am. Our announcements are spoken in many languages to accommodate all our passengers.

International passengers? You mean foreigners? Are they welcome here?

Yes, ma’am. We welcome passengers from many countries.

 Are there any foreigners on this flight?

I couldn’t say ma’am. We are just flying from Detroit to Grand Rapids.

…

Excuse me. Do I have time to get a drink before my jet plane takes off? I need a dirty martini.

We will be boarding in about twenty minutes, ma’am.

…

Excuse me. Do you know where that plane is going? What about that one? Are they going to Hawaii? I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii, but I never have because I only speak English, not Indian.

I’m pretty sure they speak English in Hawaii, too.

…

Excuse me. Will we be served chicken or fish for dinner?

I’m sorry ma’am, there is no food service on this flight due to its short duration.

No food?! Not even a dirty martini?

So here it is: The Litter Box can now be found at mylitterbox.net. I’ve taken the plunge and registered the domain.

Along the way, I spruced things up a bit. If you know me, you know I’m not a fan of clutter (though you wouldn’t have guessed that if you could see what my desk looks like right now). But it’s true. I’m not a huge fan of those blogs that have all that clutter in their gutters, those that have things pop out at you, or—worse yet—the blogs that start blasting songs that make you jump higher than the heavens.  You won’t find any of that here. Just keepin’ it simple. Clean and neat. Uncluttered. At least for now…

I’ve edited a few of the posts, deleted a few of the ones that, as I read through them this morning, couldn’t understand why I posted in the first place. But I’ve kept some of my favorites, too. And I will soon add more, of course.

After all, no one likes a dirty litter box.

Branded Like a Cow

Do you know what you’re looking at, folks? It’s a tattooed doll. But not any doll, mind you. It’s Barbie.

Barbie!

The little innocent doll I spent hours playing with as a child. Oh, Barbie, what HAVE you done??

I HAD NO IDEA.

It wasn’t a large convention, but the aisles were packed with parents and kids of all ages—some children who appeared only days old and were slumped in what looked like dreadfully uncomfortable sling-like contraptions around their parents shoulders. I saw many different religious associations (ranging from Mennonite moms to Catholic priests) and a variety of clothing styles, some of them dating back to the early 90s (ankle-length skirts, lacey shalls, layered socks, and what I call the butt braid—braided hair that is woven so tight and so long that it finally ends at butt-height). BTW, when DID tassels go out of style and why? Clothing and a toy all wrapped into one—it doesn’t get any more entertaining than that!

But I digress…

The point is, it only took a matter of seconds for me to be inundated with hundreds of products, hundreds of parents… and hundreds of children. Two things became immediately clear:

1. I was going to have fun blogging about this, and

2. I was about to get a very large headache

You see, kids and Cat don’t usually mix very well. It’s not that I don’t like them. It’s just that I get a distinct feeling that they don’t like me. They frown when I make funny faces or cry when I try to get them to laugh—basically the exact opposite of my intent. My little sister has made a living out of caring for kiddos, but they just aren’t my forte.

I needed to make a quick decision. Wait until the screaming gave me the migraine of the century… or join the screaming and give said migraine to the parentals. It was a genius plan: set out to have the loudest, most entertaining day possible.

-First, I asked Elijah, the son of a nearby exhibitor, to help me build Noah’s Giant Floor Puzzle. We loudly voiced all the animal noises as the puzzle came together, much to the pleasure (or dismay?) of passers by.

-Later he and I built Noah’s Fantastic Boat (you’d be surprised how many Noah products are marketed in Christian retail these days)

-I challenged another boy to a game of Pilgrim’s Progress, which proved to be a bad idea after the third time I got sent back to the City of Destruction.

-I made up for my loss by participating in a science experiment across the aisle where dozens of kids laughed when they saw what happened to my hair when I touched a friction energy converter (No, I will NOT post pictures).

-After being scolded by the crotchety Grandma exhibiting next to me, I recruited a few kids to variously and occasionally bring her Tootsie Rolls. By mid-afternoon, she had received and eaten so much sugar, that she was all smiles (I think my cohorts may have snuck a few for themselves as well).

-I asked a few homeschooling mamas to watch my booth (a quick shout out to them—thanks Marla, Londa, Glenda, and Reatha) while I rooted for my buddy Elijah in the INDOOR Civil War reenactment, complete with canon firing. Yes, I said INDOOR.

-Later in the afternoon, I challenged a tired little boy to a sword fight using swords made of blown-up Diaper Jeenie bags. I lost, but he got a new burst of energy and ran around yelling ON GUARD!

-When a man walked by carrying—but not leaning on—a set of crutches, I jumped in front of him and yelled IT’S A MIRACLE! HE CAN WALK! (Turns out the crutches belonged to his wife who was propped against a check-out counter a few feet behind him).

-Perhaps the highlight of my day was when I snuck around the corner to find 2 of my new grade school friends kissing. Yes… kissing! Caught in the act, they jumped back and awkwardly stammered an excuse… they were discussing politics. I nodded my approval and stifled my laughter until I was safely back in my booth.

-Realizing this might be the social event of the year for some of those families, I started winking at a few of the shy teenage boys who trailed their moms through the aisles and even… gasp… showed some teeth to the other boys who wandered about on their own. Heaven forbid a woman should smile at them!

Oh what have I done?

Exhausted but migraine averted, I trudged into my hotel room that night satisfied with a long day’s work. I had survived… and given a few teenage boys something to talk about for a while—at least until next year’s convention.

What WILL that be like? Dare I even wonder?

Icky Purse

It was a cute purse. And it called me from the other side of the store (which is not an easy thing to do). What’s more, it was on sale. How could I resist? 

If only I had x-ray vision…

The stripes on the purse were intoxicating but what I found inside the purse was sobering. The next morning as I cleaned out the paper that was stuffed inside to give the purse shape, I noticed an unusual heaviness to the bag. Something else was in my new purse. 

I turned the purse upside down and shook it. Nothing. I turned the purse inside out and shook it. Nothing. Whatever was in the bag was between the pocket layer and the outside fabric of the purse. 

How is that possible? The only explanation was that there was some sort of tear or hole in one of the pockets.  

Sure enough. The corner of the small zipper pocket was shredded. For a moment I was angered by the fact that my new purse was flawed. But seconds later, my anger was replaced by shock when I discovered the source of the unwanted weight.

A few rusty pennies.

A few strips of shredded paper, like what you might see as evidence that a mouse is inhabiting your residence.

A small, travel-size bottle of hand lotion.

A stick of stale gum.

On a normal day, all of these things could be found in any of my other purses. But these items did not belong to me. 

I suddenly felt icky. The feeling you get when you’re totally creeped out by something–like when you see a dead rodent or a really big spider where it shouldn’t be.

Needless to say, I was a little late for work that morning, between my little investigation and the trip back to the store where I purchased someone else’s personal belongings. The clerk didn’t seem overly surprised, which annoyed me just a little. Her only explanation: someone must have returned this purse without realizing there was a hole that had swallowed her lotion and gum. That’s why I got it on sale–because it was used merchandise. Her reasoning did little to comfort me, but she did take the purse back, replace it with another from stock, and give me a 25% coupon off my next purchase.

But that purchase may never come… at least not until the ickyness has subsided and definitely not until I’ve thoroughly inspected every millimeter of every inch of every cloth inside and outside of the new product.

In the words of Ian Hunter, once bitten and twice shy, baby.