The Red Shooter Hat

see? i identify with this. 

I don't know why, but when I read a classic book I usually seem to get hold of it by the wrong end. I don't go to misinterpret or to catch a different meaning than everyone else, but somehow I do. When I read, I let the story carry me. I let go of analysis until I have finished the book. Its effect on me usually remains to be seen until the final pages are gone. I don't know how to analyze as I go. And even if I did, I think I would get caught in the current of the story and forget to. When I was younger I used to grow frustrated that I couldn't foresee the solution of a mystery when my brother, bless his soul, could guess in three pages who had done it and how, and possibly in which room. Then I grew older, and it frustrated me (and still frustrates me) that I seem to interpret books differently than the official analysis. Take, Go Set a Watchman by Harper Lee. That book made critics throw back their heads and howl with pain as Lee allegedly ripped the character of Atticus as we know him, to shreds. When I read the book I was disappointed in Atticus, yet Lee had built her characters and story-world well enough that the shift in conviction didn't exactly ruin Atticus for me. It made him even more real...because he has a (very large) flaw that one didn't see in To Kill a Mockingbird but that one could believe given his age and times. There is an argument to be made for the idea that Harper Lee didn't intend the version of Atticus seen in Go Set a Watchman to be the Atticus the world knew because, after all, she published TKAM and Atticus mightn't yet have been in his final form in its prequel. There is that argument (I spent some time this weekend arguing the point with the aforementioned brother) and that is a topic for another post. But the fact remains that I didn't react the way the majority of the public reacted to Go Set A Watchman.

Likewise, upon strength of recommendation from a friend, I dived into J.D. Salinger's work this week. He is best known, I believe, for The Catcher in The Rye. I've read that and am now halfway through Franny & Zooey. Since I entered Catcher not knowing anything about it, really, except that it was generally regarded as something People Should Read, I had no preconceived notions about what it would or would not be. My initial reaction was that Salinger is a darn good wordsmith. The best way I can describe the way his writing effects me is that it feels like soda bubbles up one's nose. It's unexpected and fresh and totally different than most anything else I've ever read. My second reaction was that I, too, could write like Salinger if I replaced all my adjectives with swearing. My third reaction was that Catcher's main character, Holden Caulfield, was a boy who'd grown up too fast. His morals are questionable at every turn, but his heart is gold. I know that sounds like an anomaly. Perhaps it is. But what I saw in the character was a boy who has rushed headlong into the world and its many pleasures and yet finds himself confused by the hollow chaos and unsure how to handle how he feels about it. He is kind-hearted. He is smart. He is empty. He is generous. He has known tragedy and he has known happiness, in some small way. The kid's winded, that's for sure. He's going to kill himself presently if he doesn't get a grip, but I had a soft spot for Holden Caulfield.

Thus ran my mind as I closed The Catcher in The Rye and totted the name on my List of Books Read in 2016. Later on I looked up the book online to see what the GP (General Populace) thought of it and found that, apparently, I took away the wrong takeaway from the novel. It is reputed to be a manifesto of teen rebellion; the most censored book of the baby boomers' era; the mental ramblings of an obsessed kid; an inspiration for several shooters, including John Lennon's killer. And I swear to you most earnestly, I can't figure out why on my own. Once I looked up a couple articles, of course, I saw what they meant...if you're an over-thinker and like to overthink things. I mean, if you want to think hard enough about a grape, I guess you can decide it's a raisin and you wouldn't be wrong. You'd just be scrutinizing it past the point of good sense. Or maybe my difficulty is that I don't scrutinize much at all. I'm perfectly happy, if it's a good story, to take the story at face value. I like discussing deep things and ulterior motives and various interpretations, but I'm what Shakespeare would call a "pleasant-spirited lady" and I don't like assigning sketchy backstory to people helter-skelter. I'm more than willing to believe you are what you appear to be, until you give me a reason to think otherwise. I mean, take Holden Caulfield. Yeah, he's an emotionally unstable person given to hyperbole, but you don't exactly go around asking people if they're mad, do you? My problem is that characters become very real to me and I treat them, subconsciously, as if they were real acquaintances. I can imagine my friendship with Holden Caulfield going this way:

Me: "Hello, I'm Rachel."

H.C.: "What're you *%#% introducing yourself to me for?"

Me: "Oh, I thought you looked lonely. It's a little cold out here. Want to step inside?"

H.C. looks at me and shrugs.

Me: "Let's go."

We step inside, camera shifts, H.C. shudders some rain off his coat.

Me: "That's a dashing hat. Very red."

H.C.: "Why the &$#@$@ does everyone comment on my hat? Isn't a fella allowed to wear a $%#$3 hat every once in a while if he wants to?"

Me: "Well, it's a very nice hat."

H.C. begrudgingly: "Gee, thanks."

I'd come away thinking that H.C. was a bit of a crab, had a great many peculiarities, but was probably a fairly nice person on the whole. I wouldn't sit there and psychoanalyze him and start getting a pathological fear of people who wear red deerstalker hats and try not to go home so they won't get into trouble with their parents for flunking out of yet another school. I mean, don't get me wrong: Holden Caulfield has problems. But I think I'm the one about to develop a paranoia of letting madmen go undetected. The really disturbing part is when, like with the quote above, I identify with the supposedly nut-so character in question.

I hate the fact that I don't pick up on subtle cues in literature. I'm not a great one for symbolism. I like people to say what they mean but I don't mind if it has two or three meanings. I like complexity. But I'm also not going to assume that when you put a character in a red hat he bought in New York City, that he needs a psychiatrist. I mean, give a man a sartorial break. At any rate, this is why I don't do book reviews on my blog; I always seem to come away with quite a different impression than the author intended and I'm not sure what that says about me. So now I want to open up a discussion and ask you: are you one of the dedicated G.P. that foresee the psychological conclusion of a character like Holden Caulfield or are you more like me: a woman a bit shy to clap the shackles of a sanitarium on a person who hasn't proved himself in any concrete way to be a total loony? 

The Improvement Of Her Mind

"...by extensive reading." Tradition has it that we do this thing around this time of year. We look back on the books we read in the past twelve months, and feel very good about ourselves. At least, I do. The list usually ends up being longer than I had hoped and it always makes one feel cultured to see a piece of paper with The Weight of Glory and Psmith, Journalist chivvying for mention. So without further commentary, my list:

Tramp For The Lord by Corrie Ten Boom

The Weight of Glory by C.S. Lewis

The Island of Lost Maps by Miles Harvey

The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (reread)

Undine by Friedrich de la Motte Fouque

The Innocence of Father Brown by G.K. Chesterton

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

Notes From The Tilt-a-Whirl by N.D. Wilson

Psmith, Journalist by P.G. Wodehouse

Unnatural Death by Dorothy Sayers

Mr. Popper's Penguins by the Atwaters (reread)

Betsy, Tacy, and Tib by Maud Hart Lovelace (reread)

Miss Hickory by Carolyn Sherwin Bailey (rearead)

Stuart Little (by “Whatshisface” is what I had written on my list) (reread)

True Men And Traitors by David W. Doyle

Schindler's List by Thomas Kenealy

Go Set A Watchman by Harper Lee

Wordsmithy by Douglas Wilson

Cocktail Time by P.G. Wodehouse

Summer Lightning by P.G. Wodehouse

Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me (And Other Concerns) by Mindy Kaling

Always Pack a Party Dress by Amanda Brooks

Dearie: The Life of Julia Child by Bob Spitz

Why Not Me? by Mindy Kaling

How To Get Dressed by Alison Freer

My list rounds out with The Whimsical Christian by Dorothy Sayers, which I will finish shortly after the new year. I love how, with my governess-ing job picking up this year, I got to include re-reads of some of my childhood favorites with the girls! I hope to include a lot more this coming year. I am also happy with the balance of ten non-fiction titles out of twenty-four. That's nearly a fifty-percent non-fiction ratio, which is the highest I think it has ever been, and the strength of my brain feels it. Hurray for challenges accepted and completed! I can't wait to see what titles will make it onto my list for 2016! And now I want to know: what was your favorite book read this year? For me, I would choose Always Pack A Party Dress, which was basically The Devil Wears Prada incarnate. Just a fascinating read for anyone interested in the wide, intricate world of designer fashion.

C'est la LIFE

Writing-Wise

My MERCY, life flies by. It's July and I have the most baffing feeling that I've been some sort of hideous fake this whole spring, calling myself a writer. The truth is, what I've written this spring wouldn't fill a wide-ruled, spiral-bound notebook. I have not logged into my publishing account in four months. My Twitter is a ghost-house. I'm doing horribly with self-promotion. I'm not sure I should even be telling you this, but PR has never been my strong suit. Actually, scratch-that. Public Relations are where I am GOOD. Selling books is where I don't give a horse-fly, even when I ought, which is why I still work as a nanny rather than a full-time writer. Life has been giving me a workout and in a fist-fight between my family and my books, family wins out. That is not to say I haven't wished to write and even written a (very) little. I've started a secret thing that I can't whisper about yet because I don't want to announce my lipstick-taser before firing. I've worked a (very) little bit on Scotch'd the Snakes. I've worked on a few pieces of worthless flash fiction to keep my mind limber, and have plans to write a very quick piece of humorous fiction in honor of something I misheard a couple of weeks ago while in church. Cottleston Pie is marinating. I am not sure what to do with it yet, but murmurings of a rewrite are in the nearest corners of my mind when I stop to think about it. Historically, just about forty or fifty percent of the reading populace, after reading one of my novels, suggest I write a children's book. I have never quite decided how I feel about this reaction. Did they not enjoy my novel, but find my tone amusing and therefore feel I should tackle something of less import? Or did they like my story and/or tone so much they want it in short-order form? Or do they think I am entirely on the wrong tack and ought to pin my sails and try for something that will harm no one if it flops miserably? I cannot tell. But I love Cottleston Pie and I think I'm on the right track with it and when I take it out, it is always so much a better project that I remember it being. This is my update on personal writing. I was vicariously thrilled with my friends, like Mirriam Neal, who managed to do JuNoWriMo. Brava!

Reading-Wise

I've had a little more success. Suzannah Rowntree's Pendragon's Heir is marvelously well-written but a little too brocade for summer wear. I find it slow but pleasant going. I picked up Schindler's List by Thomas Keneally after going on a blitzkreig-speed tour through DC's Holocaust Museum. I want to go back and spend more than fifteen minutes on each floor, but what I saw was enough to convict, impress, and sober me. So far, Keneally's book is thoughtfully researched and reads much more like an interesting history than a novel, which is rather the point. Lurking behind-hand in the book-wings are a book about the children of the Holocaust (also a Museum purchase), The Nine Tailors by Dorothy Sayers, two cookbooks, and a book about the history of maps. No, it's not The Island of Lost Maps which I read earlier this year...I just have a strange fascination with cartography since the day I first watched National Treasure. The influx of reading material happened when I made the trip to our dinky library which is hardly ever open to renew my card which had expired at least a year ago. What do you know? They have books at libraries. And I'm terrible at resisting a book.

Listening-Wise

I don't listen to music while writing, generally, but I do have a list of songs that have been in my heart and head recently and here is as good a place as any to share them! :)

1. "Geronimo" - The Sheppherds
2. "Bright" - Echosmith
3. "You Belong With Me" - Taylor Swift (Come on, it isn't summer till you've had some T-Swizzle)
4. "Almost Like Being In Love" - Nat King Cole
5. "Out of an Orange-Colored Sky" - Nat King Cole
6. "Shut Up And Dance With Me" - Walk The Moon (unashamed)
7. "Budapest" - George Ezra (heard the most beautiful female-vocals version of this done by two sisters I know.)
8. "Take Your Time" - Sam Hunt
9. "Lay Me Down" - Chris Tomlin
10. "I'm a Believer" - The Monkees
11. "Christ Be All Around Me" - Leeland (my prayer, always)

My taste is eclectic, as you can see and ranges up and down the scale from standard pop to country, to big-band, to Christian contemporary. I love having varied tastes. Keeps things interesting.

Eating-Wise

Lavender Soda. It's a beautiful thing. Like drinking a vase of flowers steeped in Sprite...only less perfume-y. Also, anything boysenberry. After three years, our patch is doing prolifically well and my hands and lips are stained with the sun-soaked gems. York Peppermint Patties. I bought a bag to share around my wing at a camp...and ended up taking the whole thing home. Now I really, really want to try making s'mores with York instead of normal chocolate. Parmesan from the block. MmmHMMMM. You heard that right. Cheese is bae. If I talked that way. And I don't. Moving onnnnnn. Cherries. Dark, sweet cherries. Divinity right there. And whenever I eat cherries I am reminded of an anecdote about Oswald Chambers which you probably don't have time to hear, so I will refrain from sharing it.

I'm off to bury my nose in one of my neglected writing projects. Ciao, darlings!

Snow Days Are Good For...

"And Whereas snow, in many forms, is thought to impede the progress of the nation, it has here been proved as a catalyst for literary productivity...."

Such might run a resolution in recognition of snow-days bringing on the writing bug. Thursday, quite snowed in and unwilling to spend very long out in the cold after an icy walk, I holed myself upstairs with a fast-cooling cup of tea (or three) and finished the first draft of The Fox Went Out. I finished the draft only 590-some words past the 15,000 limit laid out by Narrative: a number easily cut in editing rounds. I wasted little time in printing the thing off and beginning first round edits. I am able to come to you tonight with first round edits also complete. If you are struggling to finish a first draft, may I suggest calling upon the weather man and ordering up snow? And if the temperature rises and you find the snow quickly melting, I might also suggest establishing a gravel-less driveway which will naturally provide you a quagmire during the thaw. It is currently quite the ordeal for me to even make it to the road to check the mail. Effective for keeping the distracted writer indoors and working, oui? I hope to type up my changes over what remains of the weekend and send The Fox Went Out to a couple trusted critics. My write-along (the wingman of writing-sprees who will read what you write as you write it and beg for more) this time was Clara Diane Thompson, fellow author of Five Glass Slippers. Clara did her part valiantly and howled over the ending of the story which made me feel penitent but Not. You know the feeling, perhaps? I am excited to receive feedback from the betas and take it through Editing Round Two so that I can get it away to Narrative's contest and its fate.

Reading has picked up. I'm in the throes of a beastly cold. Nearly done with The Hunger Games and reading Psmith, Journalist by P.G. Wodehouse for medicine. It really does work magic. I went on a book-buying spree at the front of the week: Rachel Rossano's Honor, Flannery O'Connor's Mystery & Manners, N.D. Wilson's Notes From The Tilt-a-Whirl. I have not read anything by O'Connor. Wilson, too, is a mystery. I can hardly wait for the books to come so I can dig in. I've been in need of fresh non-fiction. Somehow I find it as inspiring as (if not more than) fiction. I've heard much of O'Connor...how she is somber, dark, desperate. But I've also heard of the "terrible speed of mercy" that hurtles through her work and the Christian worldview through which her fictional worlds were created. So I am interested to read this collection of essays listed in The Rabbit Room as essential reading for modern readers and writers. I will be sure to let you know how I like it.And N.D. Wilson's word-crafting has enraptured me from afar since I first saw the book-trailer for his Boys of Blur.

What are you reading?

Twenty-Fourteen: A Behemoth Year

"The object of a New Year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul and a new nose; new feet, a new backbone, new ears, and new eyes. Unless a particular man made New Year's resolutions, he would make no resolutions. Unless a man starts afresh about things, he will certainly do nothing effective."

-G.K. Chesterton 

TWENTY-FOURTEEN

It's been a monumental year for me as a writer. So huge I wonder if I'll ever have another quite as big. See, this time last year, I was still entirely unpublished with a cover design in hand and an email into Createspace. By Valentine's Day, I had released my first novel, Fly Away Home. In January, I received word that I was a finalist in the Five Glass Slippers contest and saw my first novella published in June. The rest of the summer was spent finalizing cover design for my first mystery and second full-length novel, Anon, Sir, Anon. Throughout the early fall I put that novel through my trusty editor, Rachelle Rea, and the first Vivi & Farnham mystery debuted to quiet applause on the Fifth of November. In early December I finished the first draft of my children's novel, Cottleston Pie, and sent the first three chapters to beta-readers before polishing them up. By the time you read this, I will (hopefully) have sent Cottleston Pie to its first publisher to be looked upon with a savage eye. And we mustn't forget the twelve-day wonder, John Out-the-Window, which astounded me by coming out to nearly 18,000 words  (each letter being written the day it was posted) and being acclaimed by some people as one of their favorite things I had ever written. In all seriousness, you are the best group of readers I know. The fact that you spent time every day in the hugely busy holiday season to drop by The Inkpen Authoress (some of you several times a day) and read something that was unpolished and unedited surprises and delights me. Thus, the year in writing. As for the year in reading? Well, I keep a list taped to my Wall of Inspiration. The wall currently looks like this:

Please forgive the overflowing trash can and busy-looking desk. We can't all be tidy.

It was not an exceptional reading year as far as numbers go. I was far too busy juggling the strange new world of Nanny vs. Novelist and trying to keep up with my family in the spare times. But if I did not read many books, the quality was high and delightful. From Plenilune to The Grand Sophy; from Eric Metaxas' giant and heart-wrenching biography on Dietrich Bonhoeffer to a Steal Like an Artist by Austin Kleon; from The Man Who Was Thursday to Stephen Lawhead's Hood trilogy, it was a year of growth for me as a reader. The complete list is as follows, and my favorite titles are emboldened:

Outcasts by Jill Williamson
The Red House Mystery by A.A. Milne
Hood by Stephen Lawhead
Orthodoxy by G.K. Chesterton
Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand
Forget-Me-Nots by Amber Stokes
Scarlet by Stephen Lawhead
On Distant Shores by Sarah Sundin
Once on a Time by A.A. Milne
The Grand Sophy by Georgette Heyer
Duty by Rachel Rossano
Dietrich Bonhoeffer by Eric Metaxas
Violets Are Blue by Elizabeth Rose
Tuck by Stephen Lawhead
Regency Buck by Georgette Heyer
Captains Courageous by Rudyard Kipling
Steal Like an Artist by Austin Kleon
Only a Novel by Amy Dashwood
Plenilune by Jennifer Freitag
P.G. Wodehouse: A Life in Letters edited by Sophie Ratcliffe
The Mrs. Meade Mysteries Vol. I by Elisabeth G. Foley
The Explicit Gospel by Matt Chandler
Leave it to Psmith by P.G. Wodehouse
Aunts Aren't Gentlemen by P.G. Wodehouse
Villette by Charlotte Bronte
The Man Who Was Thursday by G.K. Chesterton
Corral Nocturne by Elisabeth G. Foley
Have His Carcase by Dorothy Sayers
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Anne Shafer
The Book Thief by Markus Zusack
Murder Must Advertise by Dororthy Sayers

As you can see, I was able to fit in quite a few indie novels, which was a lovely switch-up. The reason I do not have Five Glass Slippers on the list is because I still have not read one of the five stories and didn't feel I justified in listing it until I had. Before 2015 begins, I hope to be able to add The Hobbit into the list. It was one of my Christmas Break goals. Phew. Twenty-Fourteen sits heavy on the shoulders. Let's see what lies ahead in the twelve-month to come!

"A good brawling-book"

Do you know what I like best about reading some books?

I like reading a book and getting smacked across the face and feeling my intellect's blood take one under the jaw and stagger back a few paces. I like being thrashed by another woman's writing or ground under the heel of the prose of an uncommon man.

I don't usually read new books for comfort.

I know that sounds odd, but when I read a book for coziness's sake, it is bound to be a book whose topography is as well-known to me as the lay of light across my front yard.

When I read for reading's sake, I want to be left reeling.

The odd thing about being a writer and a reader simultaneously is that my approach to those seeming twins are at completely opposite poles. I believe that many of you assume that because I write light, “cat's paw prose” as Jenny Freitag has called it, I read nothing but A.A. Milne and P.G. Wodehouse. While those authors are certainly kin to my heart, my reading tastes stray far from my own territory. In fact, I love reading books written in styles I cannot possibly emulate. I like admiring something from afar and giving it a two-fingered salute with my heart in the gesture.

The truth is, I hate twaddle. I cannot tell you the number of times I have picked up a book and been disgusted a few chapters in by the sheer idiocy of the writing. This is literature? This is what passes the slush pile and captures an agent's fancy and eventually crosses a publisher's desk and is finally thrown at several editors for several months before going to print? This rattle-trap affair with a big publisher's name tacked to the spine has actually been turned out to the public with a runny nose, missing half its buttons and wearing its shoes backward? If I was interested in reading half the stuff published, I am certain I would begin first in files from my earliest writing. Surely I could find something more to the cheap taste in my own early work?

To be forthright, the one reason that I have not gone on board with one of those “Advance Reader For Zondervan” programs is because I have a horror of being thrown a terrible book and feeling obliged to read and review it. In the words of the irrepressible Sweet Brown:

“Ain't nobody got time fo' dat.”

I have a limited amount of free-time for reading and I like to know that my brain is striding forward in a pair of tall-boots, striving to conquer areas of the world it has not yet subdued. I enjoy attacking subjects of which I know little, authors of whom I've read nothing, and novels that make me feel equal parts worm-small and Plenilune-strong. I graduated from high-school several years ago and opted not to to attend college and instead focus on improving my writing and continuing to independently educate myself as I did all the way up. I took on the responsibility of continuing my education. No college professors are going to be cramming Nietzsche and Tolstoy down my throat. No one is forcing me to read anything. Because of that I refuse to spend the coinage of my time on books I will forget about in a week.

But while standards are a precious thing, I am conscious of making an effort not to become a snob. It would be easy for me to become snobbish because I really do have good taste. I don't say that to be a hoighty-toighty miss, but as a fact. I was raised on real literature, my tastes run toward real literature, and I feel that by now I have a sort of gauge engrained in my mind that is constantly holding up one book and comparing it to another. Suzannah Rowntree, blogger at VintageNovels, contacted me about reviewing Fly Away Home during a home-educated authors week on the blog. I laughed at one line in her email:

I [will] read your book and write an honest review. I want to help out fellow home educators here, so I won't be trying to be picky, but, fair warning: I will be holding your book to the same standards I apply to Jane Austen, CS Lewis, or Robert Louis Stevenson, which include technical excellence and discerning worldview.

That stipulation does not bother me because that is the standard to which I hold whatever I read. That means that modern classics, indie-published novels, even old classics … whatever I read is tossed up against my idea of a good book and I hope desperately to find something that sends me reeling. So this year I have branched out a little, accepted a couple of novels for review, and purposely slipped some indie-published fiction into my reading stack. Some titles have surprised me with their depth or charm, others have disappointed me with their failure to come up to my standards. And then, of course, we have unarguably great books that I hold fiercely to my chest and cuddle, daring the world to present more like them. To illustrate this adventurous reading stack, I've given you my 2014 So Far list:

Outcasts by Jill Williamson

The Red House Mystery by A.A. Milne

Hood by Stephen Lawhead

Orthodoxy by G.K. Chesterton

Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmund Rostand

Forget-Me-Nots by Amber Stokes

Scarlet by Stephen Lawhead

On Distant Shores by Sarah Sundin

Once on a Time by A.A. Milne

The Grand Sophy by Georgette Heyer

Duty by Rachel Rossano

Dietrich Bonhoeffer by Eric Metaxas

Violets are Blue by Elizabeth Rose

Tuck by Stephen Lawhead

Regency Buck by Georgette Heyer

Captains Courageous by Rudyard Kipling

Steal Like an Artist by Austin Kleon

Only a Novel by Amy Dashwood

Plenilune by Jennifer Freitag

I am blessed. I have been roundly kicked in the gut by many of these titles, the most recent of which is Plenilune. Please don't attack me for having got Advance Reading for that one. I swear she offered it herself and I didn't even beg. All I am going to say is this: the world had better brace itself; the De la Mares are coming. Sheeh, but they're coming.

… wow … don't really know what else to say. Plenilune is still clogging my mind. It was that, really, that sent a blow crashing to my temple that is still causing my ears to ring almost a full twenty-four hours after I finished it. Faith, but I love a good brawling-book. <3

"Are you in the habit of spelling poorly?"

Today I ordered the proof copy for Fly Away Home - the projected arrival date is January 15th, the same day the cover reveal party kicks off! Rather apropos, considering. Thank heaven I have rather a lot to keep me busy...all the same, until January 15th I feel rather like Callie:

Mr. Barnett and I sauntered out of the building. The sun lay warm across my neck as we turned back onto Park Row and ambled up the sidewalk toward City Hall, out of sync with the rest of the world’s go-getter pace.

“I’m glad that’s over,” I said. My heart continuously shredded and patched back up again with anxiety and euphoria. I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d have been able to last. For better or for worse our magazine had gone to print and there was nothing left to do but wait. Besides—happiness had the top-hand at present.

Mr. Barnett shrugged out of his coat and draped it over his arm. “I’m glad too.”

Euphoria fell to the bottom and nerves rose to the top again. “But I’m sure I’ll find some dreadful mistake when it comes out,” I fretted. “I’ll have spelled a dozen words wrong in one paragraph, or have broken all the most elementary rules of grammar…”

“Tell me, Callie, are you in the habit of spelling poorly?”

“Well…no.” I wouldn’t say it to him, but I rather prided myself on my ability to spell words like “different” and “separate” and “independent” without replacing the E’s with A’s and vice-versa.

“And do you often slip up with your grammar?”

“…yes.”

“Well, I suppose that can’t be helped.” Mr. Barnett laughed. “But at present I feel merry as a wedding bell over our prospects. Ladybird Snippets is an official magazine now, and I do believe she’ll have a fabulous take-off.”

(excerpt from Fly Away Home)

It's a fabulous feeling, setting up shop and having important appointments to keep and emails which need prompt replies and a planner filled with a schedule of Things To Do.

I am sure my family will be quite pleased when I resurface and rejoin the world of the living. Ever since launching this publishing thingy I've been living in my Lair. It's a nice Lair...sunshine-y, lovely, pasted all over with inspiration and books and things. But it's one room and one room is a little bit stifling after a bit. Yesterday I spent upload times (yes, it took me 8 uploads to figure out the correct margins in Createspace) doing exercises so my muscles won't atrophy.

Tomorrow marks one week until the cover reveal! I can't wait to show you the beautiful cover Rachel Rossano designed for me. Until then, here is the final Ruby Elixir Emblem as created for me by Daniel Tate:

He shall show up on the spines of all my books. I am pleased. It all "felt real" (as opposed to unreal? My, my, we are getting philosophical) when I saw Bertie (the mole, not the Anne-girl) on the cover of Fly Away Home. One by-product of feeling so hopelessly tired (sic) of this novel is that I am majorly inspired with so many other projects. I am trying to reign in these wild ideas and concentrate the energy into projects I already have going. We shall see. In addition to all this, I started lessons with my first non-related writing student. She actually lives in PA so we are doing this correspondence-wise and I cannot wait to teach her for the next couple of months. 

Readables:

I've been hanging out in Jill Williamson's Outcasts for some time. Should finish reading/reviewing that book today. It's been cool to read something of hers, as I haven't done much in that arena since our critique group disbanded. (Did I ever tell you that is how I know Jill and Stephanie?) I've also been gobbling The Red House Mystery which has me laughing aloud and loving Milne more than ever - I'm a sucker for a cozy mystery with lovable characters. And in addition to that, Orthodoxy by Chesterton is lurking in the wings till I finish Outcasts, as which point I shall also start Stephen Lawhead's Hood and Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy. Business, darlings. 

Blog Treasure:

This week has been a remarkable one for good blog posts. Among my favorites are:

The Old Year

After the Last Bullet

A Prayer for the New Year

The Best Tale that C.S. Lewis Ever Told

I suppose recently the best posts have not had much to do with writing at all...they've been more like soul-renewers...which is really what counts and keeps your writing going. 

2013 in Readables

Per usual, Abigail beat me to the punch with her 2013 Books-Read list, so if it looks like I'm being a copy-cat, fie upon that. This year was actually a rather productive year, reading-wise. I always forget to update my Goodreads page, preferring to keep a hand-written sheet of the titles I've read. There is something so much more satisfying about chalking up another one by hand over just typing in a few more words on my laptop.

Forty-Four, that page says. And forty-four good ones, I think.

//Highlights//

Penelope Wilcock's Hawk & Dove trilogy

(I devoted an entire post and a guest-post to these books. Read them.)

Don't Waste Your Life by John Piper

The Mind of the Maker by Dorothy Sayers

(I need say very little more except that it is thoroughly underlined by now.)

Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand

(Read it and weep and hurt and love.)

I'm going to categorize the rest of the list. This was a good year, book-wise, and I would recommend pretty much any of the books I read as being clean if not terribly captivating. (Looking at you, Beverly Lewis ;) Of course you must use your own judgement, but as I'm not in the habit of reading Twilight or stupid Harlequin romances (and not much fluffery either) you can be pretty-well sure I'm not going to recommend trash. If you don't have time to read the whole list just pick your favorite category and have a look at the books I read there this year. :)

//History//

1066 And All That by RJ Yeatmen, W.C. Sellar

The Princes in the Tower by Alison Weir

Two Years Before the Mast by Richard Henry Dana Jr.

The Secret Armies by Albert Merrin

Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand

//Theology & Life//

A Severe Mercy by Sheldon Vanauken

Don't Waste Your Life by John Piper

A Sweet and Bitter Providence by John Piper

Cold Tangerines by Shauna Niequist

The Mind of the Maker by Dorothy Sayers

The Case for Christ by Lee Strobel

Every Living Thing by James Herriot

//Learning//

Eats Shoots and Leaves by Lynne Truss

P.D. James Talking About Detective Fiction

//Mystery//

The Final Crumpet by Ron & Janet Benray

The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins

The Tuesday Club Murders by Agatha Christie

The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club by Dorothy Sayers

The Mystery of the Blue Train by Agatha Christie

//Historical Fiction//

The Door in the Wall by Marguerite d'Angeli

The Hawk & the Dove by Penelope Wilcock

God's Wounds by Penelope Wilcock

The Long Fall by Penelope Wilcock

The Hardest Thing to Do by Penelope Wilcock

The Hour Before Dawn by Penelope Wilcock

Remember Me by Penelope Wilcock

//Romance//

Songbird Under a German Moon by Tricia Goyer

The Covenant by Beverly Lewis

The Betrayal by Beverly Lewis

The Sacrifice by Beverly Lewis

Fire by Night by Lynn Austin

//Fantasy//

The Orphan King by Sigmund Brouwer

The Fellowship of The Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien

Dragonwitch by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

The Horse and His Boy by C.S. Lewis

Breadcrumbs by Anne Ursu

//General Fiction//

Bertie Wooster Sees it Through by P.G. Wodehouse

Carry on, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

Spring Fever by P.G. Wodehouse

The House at Pooh Corner by A.A. Milne

The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope

//Classics//

Manalive by G.K. Chesterton

At the Back of the North Wind by George MacDonald

Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare

As I look back on this year, the list pleases me. There are so many memories tied into the books themselves or my reading of them, and I am glad to see I have rather a balanced diet of weighty-to-fluff, though I am sad I didn't get to Dickens this year! For Christmas I was given Orthodoxy by Chesterton (at last!) and The Red House Mystery of A.A. Milne (thrilled about this one) along with a gorgeous hardbound, illustrated copy of The Hobbit by Tolkien, and I have promised to read Jill Willliamson's newest novel, Outcasts, by the end of January so my reading will continue! If I finish any others by the end of the December, I shall certainly let you know. :) What do your reading lists look like?

Reading Stuffs

Since we all agree that reading is about the top most important thing you can do to improve your writing (besides actually writing...you'd be surprised how many people just complain about not being good writers and never write anything.), and since I (at least) am always on the look-out for good books, I thought I'd give you a quick look into what I've been reading in days of yore:

1066 and All That

W.C. Sellar and R.J. Yeatman

The best way to describe this book is as the books describes itself:

"Histories have previously been written with the object of exalting their authors. The object of this History is to console the reader. No other history does this. History is not what you thought. It is what you can remember. All other history defeats itself."

Here is an example from Chapter VII entitled: "Lady Windermere. Age of Lake Dwellers":

Alfred had a very interesting wife named Lady Windermere (The Lady of the Lake), who was always clothed in the same white frock, and used to go bathing with Sir Launcelot (also of the Lake) and was thus a Bad Queen..."

So as you can see, if you aren't particular as to the exact precision of your historical facts, 1066 and All That is a rather wonderful little history--quite easy to understand. I have my brother's fellow flat-tenant to thank for introducing me to this peculiar book when I was attempting to flip him over to becoming an A.A. Milne fan.

I am currently in the process of reading my very first G.K. Chesterton book which happens to be a novel I was given for my birthday.

Manalive

By G.K. Chesterton

"A puddle repeats infinity, and is full of light; nevertheless, if analyzed objectively, a puddle is a piece of dirty water spread very thin on mud." -Manalive

Though I am not very far into the book, Manalive seems to be in a class entirely of its own. It appears, thus far, to be an allegorical novel about a boarding-house of pessimists who encounter an incurable optimist in the form of Innocent Smith and think him rather mad. I have enjoyed the book though I am eager to see where on earth it trots off to. It is a strange novel but pleasant, and goes nothing at all like you'd think it would...last I left Innocent Smith he'd just been arrested under charges of being a terribly dangerous criminal...just as he was off to get a marriage-license too. Very strange. But attractive, somehow.

The Covenant

by Beverly Lewis

By now you know exactly how I feel about romance novels--the Amish ones in particular. I kind of sneer at them mentally, which isn't exactly fair when you calculate how few I've read. My sister-in-law-ish Abigail took it into her wicked little head that it'd be a fine idea to order the entire Abram's Daughters series for my birthday. She did, and laughed like a little she-devil when I opened them and groaned helplessly. But for her sake (and as an experiment in modern literature) I began to read and found nothing sneer-worthy in the novels. Exasperated, I admitted to Abigail that the first in the series, The Covenant, was not all fluff. Delicate topics were handled with a clean sweetness hard to find in most romance books, and I found myself curious as to what the second novel will hold. Darn Abigail's mushrooms--she might have the last laugh yet!

Eats Shoots and Leaves

By Lynn Truss

All I can say is that this book has been on my To Read list for quite some time, as I'd heard that is is a remarkable little volume that packs a whole lot of grammatical punch. I bought it as my yearly Birthday Present To Me at the little college book-store in Northern Virginia as a helpful clerk looked on and wondered why the array of Chesterton, Lewis, and Tolkien entranced me so. I set to work with my feet propped up on one of Daniel's co-workers' desks and cracked the cover. So far, I've been amused, blushing, and feeling guilt-ed into good grammar...not exactly what I was expecting, but still helpful. You just kinda get the sense that you're disappointing some strict grammarian somewhere in the universe every time you use a superfluity of commas or misplaced apostrophe. But you know, if you want to correct your grammar dead or alive, this book certainly makes you aware of key danger-spots, habits you'll want to break, and just how important punctuation really is. I have definitely found myself laughing over some of her examples and I am glad I bought this book even if it is a bit more of a rant than an instructional. 

"If you persist in writing 'Good food at it's best', you deserve to be struck by lightening, hacked up on the spot and buried in an unmarked grave." -Eats Shoots and Leaves

So these are the tomes taking up my attention at the moment (or recently finished). Several more line the wall of my Lair waiting to be placed on the shelves, and my birthday is not finished being celebrated so there is still a prospect of more to come. What can I say? The life of a book-lover always has room for more!

It reads the better which is our own

"A book reads the better, which is our own, and has been so long known to us, that we know the topography of its blots, and dog's ears, and can trace the dirt in it to having read it at tea with buttered muffins." -Charles Lamb

(and incidentally one of my favorite book-love quotes)

        If a book is your own, certainly you are in the position of caretaker. Do you keep your books like well-kept children: always scrubbed and shining with covers unsmudged? Or do you take the Mrs. Arliss approach to your book-keeping and lay they haphazardly on the tabletops or forget about them on the porch till the afternoon gale has had a peep in the pages? Or do you take a somewhat middle road with a comfortable wear to your collection that still retains a semblance of pride in the fact that you have begun a personal library. Speaking for myself, I have swung from one side of the pendulum to the other. I have mentioned before that touch is a big thing for me, and I have always loved the crackle of a page that has got damp from some spillage and then dried again; perhaps with the ink a bit blurry and spoiled but still legible. The same question applies to writing in books...I have gone through stages in my life where I was a non-scribbler and then a pro-scribbler, underlining and scoring dozens of lines and pages that really didn't mean much of anything to me, just because I wanted my books and Bible to look well-used. Have you ever read anything more pathetic than that? I'm sure I haven't, but at ten or eleven, that was my mind-set.

       Once I realized the idiocy of such a habit, I ceased entirely. But over the last several years as I have started reading things that really mattered, and as the Lord has brought certain verses to me that I had never thought of in that certain way, I've become a scribbler-in again. Last year I was privileged to meet the book I have mentioned before: Sheldon Vanauken's A Severe Mercy. I cannot stress how much each of you needs to read this. I read some books and I like them, but then I read some books and the thoughts from those books stay with me through the day as the book sits on the shelf, and then through the weeks and months after I have finished and have put the book away. I wish I had written in A Severe Mercy when I first read it, underlining all the lines and passages that were precious to me. Instead when I thought I could rely on Goodreads to have all those quotes, I was in error. Goodreads has, apparently, heard little of Vanauken's killer book, and I was afloat in a sea of half-remembrances. That being said, yesterday I took out the battered, 80's copy of this book and dove back in with my ball-point pen in hand. So far it is just as amazing as I recalled and I have recklessly dived in, underscoring all the best lines and writing in the margins.

       Some people complain about finding books written in, but I think it is a beautiful thing. I like nothing better than to open an old book in a store and find not one but three or even four names written on the inside of the cover, the ink fading in varying degrees to show the age of each inscription. I like to turn my mind to vaguely imagining what those people were like, and if they enjoyed the book, and if it effected their lives or if it was a thing they never finished and all but forgot they had started.

      If I find notes written among the pages, I am often unsatisfied till I've read them all and "gotten to know" the person who had once held the same volume. After all, reading is a relatively private affair (at least it is for me) and some of my most tender, young, and wise thoughts come to me as I read. When I'm in the clutches of a good story--a really good story--there is no one in the world but myself and those characters...for once all the restraints of society and Other People are broken and my brain runs wild. If others are like me, isn't there a good chance that the notes pencilled on the edges of the page are heart-thoughts of the previous reader? I have read stories that claim such a thing. I once even read a story (I can't recall if it was fiction...probably) where a man found someone's misplaced book and started reading it, and fell in love with the woman who had written the notes in the margins because her handwriting and her notations showed such a deep and tender soul. Of course that is a sentimental story, and perhaps writing in my books is sentimental as well. But I say, if college students can score and underline their textbooks, shouldn't Lewis and Chesterton and Bronte and Austen and all the rest deserve an equal chance to be tattered and loved? I think so.

       But everyone in the world must have their opinion, and I suppose you will be aching to speak your own so here's your opportunity: What do you have to say on the subject of Scribbling Or Not? Leave a comment and let's continue the discussion; I'd love to hear your ideas.

In a nutshell...

On Goodreads, and over on my all-purpose blog, I have compiled a complete list of the books I've read (at least this far) in 2012. If you want to see the whole shebang, just click on the link. Otherwise, stick here and I'm covering the highlights of the year. :)

1.) I was introduced to Rosemary Sutcliff via The Eagle of the Ninth and found a temporary extension of Jenny while Jenny's other books are waiting to be published. ;) I continued my fascination with Sutcliff over The Silver Branch and The Lantern Bearers. Such great historical fiction! I loved those books, though I'm not much interested in "ancient" history. And that's saying something.

2.) I worked my way through Les Miserables which was an ENORMOUS book, then followed it up almost immediately by working through Henryk Sienkeiwicz's With Fire and Sword which was also an ENORMOUS book.

3.) I re-read Jane Eyre and discovered previously untouched depths of humor and satire in its pages. Who would have thought it? Jane Eyre? Comedic? Well it is.

4.) I read 3 out of 4 books in Megan Whalen Turner's The Thief series and was by turns maddened, confused, delighted, and amused before getting whiplash on the intricate plot turns at the end of each book.

5.) I wrote my first "fan-letter" to an author.

6.) I read Kathryn Stockett's The Help and realized the bar for debut novels has been suddenly raised higher. Very much higher.

7.) I read A Severe Mercy by Sheldon Vanauken and realized the depths of my own heart are so much deeper than I'd noticed before.

8.) I found Wodehouse. End of story.

9.) I read Daphne du Marier's Rebecca and was upset for a week.

10.) I had the great and noble privilege of reading 5 hitherto unpublished books written by a number of my friends including Mirriam Neal, Rachelle Rea, and Julia Erickson.

What was your year of reading, in a nutshell? :)

(Oh! In other news, Miss Dashwood's caption won by a single vote in the caption contest! Hurrah to her! May the odds ever be in your favor, my friend.)

What the Dickens...?

I’m going to take a stand and proclaim what I have learned as one of {perhaps the} the single most important keys to becoming a great writer. Ready? All right...

I guest-posted over at Living on Literary Lane this morning, so if you feel like reading more about what I've determined to be the single most important thing about being a successful author, head over there!
Second, it has been long and too long since I've had myself a Dickens-dive. Honestly, I think its been since Oliver Twist which was too short. Sure I'm in the middle of reading A Voice in the Wind (but ancient Greece and Rome isn't really my thing.) and The Narnian, but I feel a need for immersion in Charles Dickens strong upon me. Which should I read? Since graduating I have the most plummy stack of his titles on my shelf:

Bleak House
Oliver Twist
Great Expectations
A Tale of Two Cities 
Nicholas Nickleby
Hard Times
The Christmas Carol
The Cricket on the Hearth
The Chimes
The Pickwick Papers

I'm in the mood for something funny and droll, so probably I'll reread Pickwick or Nickleby. I've read all those titles except for Hard Times, but I'm not in the mood for a drearier title so I'll save it for later. In addition to---AH! I had forgotten I was recently given Dombey and Son! I ought to read that!--anyhow, in addition to those titles, I've also read Little Dorrit, The Old Curiosity Shop, and Barnaby Rudge. Wow. I'm a lot closer to having read all of Dickens' novels than I thought! Exciting! That's an item on my bucket-list, you know. :)
Well, lots to do today so toodle-pip and have a nice giddy-biscuit for me if you think of it.

If you must be Quixotic...

I like to hand myself a hard question now and then and stretch the all too lax abstract/logic muscles of my mind into trying to give a suitable answer. As I sat down this evening and thought about what to write, the question came to me:

Why do I like to write?

In forming my answers for this question, I laid certain parameters upon myself: 1) I could not use "I just love it" to explain. 2) I could not mention Epic by John Eldridge. There. Pact made, and no backsies. 

So why do I like to write?

In a pale, mortal way my answer is a mirroring of 1 John 4:19 which speaks of why we love God: "We love because He first loved us." The question "Why do you like to write" is one of a capricious nature that has no beginning and no end. It simply is. {which, incidentally, is not breaking my pact. No fear on that account. I will explain myself.} I love to write because I love to read, and as I've grown older I believe I love to read because I love to write. The things are inverse and adverse and companions and fools. A love of reading came before an acknowledged love of writing, but I would not say you were incorrect in wondering if the love of writing was always there waiting for an outlet it could not find until I first took up a pen with the intention of forming my own words on paper.

Asking a writer why they like to write {in the theoretical sense of the question} is like asking a person why they breathe. For me, writing is a natural reflex to the beauty, the events, and the people I see around me. As Anais Nin put it, "We write to taste life twice." I live and then I write. The one transfers to the other, for me, in a gentle, necessary way. As prosaic as it sounds, I believe I process by writing. Part of the way I deal with stressful situations, catty people, or great joy or great trials in my own life is by conjuring it onto paper in some way; a journal entry, a blog post, my writing notebook, or my latest story. While I am a fair conversationalist, my real forte is expressing myself in words on paper. If I leave it all chasing round my head like rabbits in a warren, I'm apt to become a bug-bear to live with and my family would not thank me. Some people need counselors. Some people need long, drawn-out phone-calls with a trusted friend. Some people need to go out for a run. I need to get away to a quiet, lonesome corner--preferably on the front steps at gloaming with the North Star trembling against the darkening blue. I need to set my pen fiercely against the page {for at such moments I must be writing--not typing.} and I need to convert the stress or excitement or happiness into something to be shared with another person.

The beauty of the relationship between reading and writing is its give-and-take dynamic. For years I gathered and read every book in the near vicinity and absorbed tale upon tale, story upon story, adventures and sagas and dramas and classics. I fed my fancy, my tastes, and my ideas upon good books and thus those aspects of myself grew up to be none too shabby. When I began to employ my fancy, tastes, and ideas in writing my own books, the dawning of a strange and wonderful idea tinged the horizon of thought with blush-rose colors: If I persisted and worked hard and poured myself into the craft, I could create one of those books. One of the heart-books that foster a love of reading and even writing in another person somewhere. I could have a hand in forming another person's mind. A great responsibility and a great privilege that, and one I would love to be a party to. Books can change a person. I am a firm believer in that. I cannot tell you how many sentiments or noble ideas or parts of my own personality are woven from threads of things I've read over the years. I hoard quotations and shadows of quotations and general impressions of books like a tzar of Russia hoards his icy treasures. They make up a large part of who I am. I think it's worth saying again: books can change a person. For better or for worse. As a writer it's my two-edged gift to be able to slay or heal where I will. It's my responsibility to wield that weapon aright and do only good with my words. Or only purposeful cutting. I am not set against the surgeon's method of butchery--the nicking of a person's spirit, the rubbing in of a salty, stinging salve, and the ultimate healing-over of that wound that makes for a healthier person in the end. It's the bitter herbs that heal the best, so now and again you might be called upon to write something with more cayenne than honey about it. But the end must be good. We cannot let the Light fade from our words.

My last answer for this self-imposed question is a bit shallower, a bit meaner, a bit more like the saucy miss I'm apt to become now and again when the mood is upon me: I like to write because I savor the power. I like to draw a person in and attach them to fictional people. I like to transport them places they've never been, introduce them to observations they'd never have seen were it not for me. Presumptuousness, I know. I like to implant a bit of Rachel in them that may stick there like a cockle-bur the rest of their lives, never to drop away. I like to entrance a reader in my intricate, gossamer web of story and spin them out to the other side, breathless and dew-damp; a little bewildered, a deal pleased. So these, dear friends, are my answers to that wonderfully quixotic question of why I like to write. I'd like to see sister-posts of your own reasons if you so had the time or the inclination. But for now I'll leave you and trot off the practicality of fetching my dinner.

"...He had begun writing again—fierce, warring words she could tell, by the bold black strokes."

-The Scarlet-Gypsy Song

Of Procrastination and Readables.

I am procrastinating today. Of course that is to be expected after having been entirely away from my writing for so long. (A WHOLE WEEK) It was a wonderful week, but I find my brain rather foggy and it will only think nonsense, so I thought I'd work on Cottleston Pie, but it doesn't want to write nonsense--only think it--so here I am realizing I had better write a blog post to clear off that wonderfully vanity-and-warm-fuzzy-inducing post my sister-ish-in-law-ish person wrote for me in a grand dose of Trespassing.

What a nice surprise to come home to.

I think I will indulge in reading today. Just to get my brain back into the feel of forming words. I know if I tried to write it'd be rubbish today, (having read a lot of posts I'd missed on Go Teen Writers, reading Jenny's convention-posts on Scribblings, and generally stuffing my head full of How It Oughter Be Done.) so I'll just let myself off this once and read something.

This brings to me the question, "what am I reading?". Here's the latest:

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

Never sorry I bought this for my birthday earlier this summer, though I already owned a ratty copy. My third time through it, I believe, and just as good now as it ever was.

Freddy Goes to Florida by Walter R. Brooks

I am reading this as a love-gift to Abigail. Because honestly, I'd never have thought to pick it up. But Abigail--being the wonderful sister-ish person she is--decided I needed a break from classics and taking my writing seriously, and sent me off on an improbable winter "migration" with a bunch of daft farm-animals. I've laughed. Truly.

A Severe Mercy by Sheldon Vanauken

An autobiographical book by Sheldon Vanauken about his relationship with his wife, their friendship with C.S. Lewis, their conversion to Christianity, and a bum-bum-bum-bummmmmmm which hasn't come up yet. This book has made me laugh, touched me, and will doubtless make me cry by the end. It reminds me of Jenny, somehow, and one of the reasons I like it best is because it deals with C.S. Lewis...and any book with him inside it is automatically that much better. I love true books.

The Help by Kathryn Stockett

I picked this book up for two reasons: 1) The plot intrigued me, 2) I'd been looking for a modern novel to read and enjoy, and I'd heard this one was better than most. Boy were they right. An entire review is forthcoming, but know that if you are of the age of 16 and older, I highly highly recommend it. It does have a couple issues such as language, but over all I think it was an instant classic.

In other news, I've got quite a queue of books lined up waiting to be read and/or re-read, including the Mark of the Lion series, Kidnapped, and a lurking, long-time feeling that I want to read again my beloved Chronicles of Narnia--a feeling likely stemming from reading A Severe Mercy.

What are you reading? How is your Have Read List for 2012 shaping up?

Organization is the key...?

Well, I did as I said I would and put together a post about my book projects. :) For once I was not thinking about writing books--only about organizing and sorting them. Here are the basics:

^ My shabby little fake-wood shelf before... (wasn't it depressing?)

...and after. :) Looks much more respectable, doesn't it?

I organized the shelves in my own little way. From the bottom up there are...miscellaneous books/Sarah's school books. Next shelf: Beloveds. Middle Shelf: Classics. After that: Antique Books. Top Shelf: Lamplighter/overflow classics. :)

My falling-apart copy of The Fellowship of The Ring--that's dedication you know; reading a book in that state.

I had forgotten I had bought a reprint Sears Roebuck's Catalog from 1902. :) It's the most marvelous thing for price-checking when writing a book set in that era....funny illustrations too. :)

Long underwear... haha!

My personal antique copies of books. :) There is nothing that delights me more than reading old books that I know were read and loved and cherished even before I bought them. :) I've got Anne of Green Gables, Anne of Windy Poplars, Little Women, Under the Lilacs, two of The Waverly Novels, Strawberry Girl, Hans Brinker, A Garland for Girls, Gulliver's Travels, a quote book, Moby Dick, and A Man Called Peter. :)

and my dear A.A. Milne books. :) I love the bumble-bee print covers. :)

My most cherished Literary Collection: 8 Dickens novels I bought with some graduation money. :)

This is actually Sarah's book--all of the letters Beatrix Potter wrote to little children--so sweet!

Detail of one page...

You want to know where I christen all my characters?

Yep. I admit it. Many of them have un-illustrious births in the Everything Baby Names Book. :D

My little book-loving statue. :)

This is the Antique Shelf after adding Sarah's books--some Thornton W. Burgess books, Eight Cousins, Jo's Boys, and others. :)

I hope you enjoyed seeing a little of my literary collection. :) After the sorting of the shelves I got rid of the books I never have liked. *feels slightly guilty.* ;) That means all these books left on the shelf (or nearly all of them) are tried and true and well-loved. I plan to expand my collection as I grow older, but for now it's probably just as well that I don't have any more books. As it was, Sarah is innocent of all charges of Book-Hoarder. Most of the titles on this bookcase are mine. :P Actually, I have a refurbishing project to do on a little cupboard that I hope to turn into a bookcase--I'll let you know how it goes! :)