On Baby Chicks.

So, today marks the last day I got to see my baby chick.

Perhaps I should back up and explain. I am in AP Biology. After the AP exam -- which was a couple of weeks ago -- my teacher bought a bunch of newly hatched chicks as a last, fun project for the year. (She does this every year, though only for the AP Bio students.)

Mine was (is) a little Rhode Island Red chick. She slept on my hand, mostly, and freaked out when I picked her up, and was rather antisocial. We had to do an experiment in which we took away the heat lamp from a group of 5 or 6 chicks to observe their behavior, and they were supposed to huddle together; but my chick turned her back on the others and just fluffed out her feathers.

I named her Imogen. "Imogen" is such a... a chic name, an unusual name, one which conjures up a calm, collected hipster. And if my chick could wear glasses and lounge about at some Paris cafe, listening to Imogen Heap (the music band) on an mp3 player, I think she would.

She had (has) soft downy feathers of a gentle red color, except for the tiniest splotch of black at the back of her head, like some artist had to put a finishing touch on this little piece of work. She never attempted to fly, though her wing feathers always looked long and a spotty brown-and-white and ready to feel the wind between them.

We painted their toenails different colors, to tell which one was our own. Since there are at least a handful of other Rhode Island Red chicks, I painted the middle toenail of Imogen's feet a bright pink. Just the middle toenail, or claw, whatever the proper terminology is, on both feet. Not that this always helped, as -- fun fact! Baby chicks are attracted to color, and will peck off any nail polish you might paint onto their nails.

Imogen also had the tendency, as I said, to freak out when I picked her up. There are still thin scratch marks across the backs of my hands, because she apparently felt much safer perched on the thin ledge of my wrist and the back of my hand, rather than safely cupped in my palms. Still, she was a sweet little darling. When I had her safely to the tabletop, she never left my hand, but cuddled into my palms and trembled just a bit, falling asleep and jerking awake at random.

And of course, I wanted to keep her. But I live in a suburban home, one filled with cats at that, and it wasn't really an option. My teacher assures us they will go to farms where they will be layer hens; they are not going to get slaughtered or mistreated. But I still feel kind of bad, because the entire point of the project was to get the baby chick to imprint with you, and then once you get imprinted they get sent away from their human "mother." I can't help picturing little Imogen at some farm, waiting for me to come by so she can perch in my palms and fall asleep in peace, even when she's big and unable to fit in my hands.

Like the relationship with my cats, I just see -- I don't know. A little spark of something, in their eyes, on their face. I like to think every animal is just as capable of thinking as I am, and judges me on my behavior as much as I on theirs. My baby chick is one of these intelligent animals. I think she does love me, in her little chickie way, and that she would want me around for a long time, just to sit in my lap and rest her little beak on the edge of my thumb while she drifts off. And it wrenches my heart to think she'll grow puzzled at my absence, and then maybe she'll get anxious, and then -- eventually -- forget all about me. As strange as she is, she deserves something good for her, even if it's a clumsy teenage girl just stroking her head and cooing at her in that quiet voice reserved especially for baby animals.

I am not entirely sure why I decided to share this post with you, about my somewhat pathetic empathy for a baby chicken, of all things, but I suppose I wanted to offer up a little lesson. Because, you know, teenagers learn some worthwhile morals that others can benefit from, too.

In the end, I think it's not just baby chicks who imprint on you. People imprint on others, too, and I guess sometimes you imprint right back.

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

A vulnerable young girl wins a dream assignment on a big-time New York fashion magazine and finds herself plunged into a nightmare. An autobiographical account of Sylvia Plath's own mental breakdown and suicide attempt, THE BELL JAR is more than a confessional novel, it is a comic but painful statement of what happens to a woman's aspirations in a society that refuses to take them seriously... a society that expects electroshock to cure the despair of a sensitive, questioning young artist whose search for identity becomes a terrifying descent toward madness.

~Print copy, 216 pages
Published: 1972 by Bantum Books (originally published 1971 by Harper & Row)

I picked this up because... well, I'm not sure why. I knew it was depressing -- it does have the words mental breakdown, suicide attempt, and despair in the summary -- but I checked it from the library and read it, on a whim.

It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. The suicide attempt isn't until farther in, past the halfway mark. It's sensitive and sad, not despairing, or overly gloomy, or angsty.

Where exactly do I start? The main character, Esther Greenwood, comes back from a glamorous New York assignment to her boring, suburban life, and becomes depressed. Not specifically because she came back from a city like New York to a "boring" life, mind you, like the summary suggests. But like real life, her depression doesn't need a reason. It just happens.

Depression, I feel, is a rather sensitive topic in fiction. I read many, many more books of character's angst, or their lovestruck woes, than I do about real mental illness. And it is a relief to see it here, displayed clearly, announcing, yes, this is what depression feels like and this is a way that I don't like it being treated. It shows the real fear and helplessness and lethargy of someone trying to understand this pale, restricted world with her pale, restricted senses, and honestly wanting to get out of it.

Now, I'm not going to say it's perfect. It's not always to my liking. But it's honest. Honest in an emotional way that you don't find often enough in fiction.

For example, her desire to lose her virginity. (This book's been out for 30 years. You can use some spoilers, if you haven't read it by now.) It isn't skipped over, it isn't smoothed over, because she's a girl. It's talked about.

And so is her depression. It's talked about. She tries to kill herself -- it's explained in detail how she tried (and failed) to do it, not just the attempt that landed her in the mental hospitals, but the ones before -- the ones her mother or her doctors didn't find out about, because she couldn't do it. It shows how she feels after the electroshock, both the first time with the guy doctor and the second time with the woman doctor. The feelings are acted out in subtle ways -- how she assumes everyone thinks terribly about her, how she feels "stuck under a bell jar." (I don't think that's a direct quote, but it is something similar.)

I don't like the jumps in topic. Sometimes, it is hard to follow. And I've never understood the whole "getting rid of your virginity" thing. (Obviously, that's not a quote at all.) Esther -- well, sometimes she is hard to connect with. She sort of makes it that way. She pushes everyone away, her neighbors, her family, and sometimes even the reader. But I don't consider that a fault with her, strangely enough, because it makes her that much realer.

In the end, I suppose, I don't mind this book. Not my favorite, maybe not something I'd reread, but certainly is thought-provoking and honest and sad. Sad books aren't thrown out of my books-to-read just because they're sad. But I suppose I would recommend this book to the sort of scholarly person who wants to ruminate on the sadder aspects of life, the ugly aspects like mental illness, that no one else seems to talk about -- especially in a 30-year-old book, about a woman in a very patriarchal world, who sticks out.

3.5 stars. (I'll round that to a 4.)
Have a blessed day.

 

Trying New Things -- Or, Eating Healthier

Things change very slowly, sometimes.

To be honest, my diet and eating habits are poor. I'm a secretive, inverted person by nature, and that translates into the way I eat: I furtively grab whatever is on the kitchen shelves, whatever is ready to eat and doesn't involve asking about how to cook it.

A double rainbow outside my home.

My typical day, in fact, ends up something like this: school mornings, skip breakfast. My stomach begins bubbling with hunger by about 2nd period (on even days; on odd days, that's 3rd period). My lunch consists of two items grabbed that morning, usually a small bag of chips (Doritos or Lays) and cookies or something. Both are usually processed foods.

Wait until I get home, and by then (while not super-hungry), I browse my kitchen. More chips. Chicken nuggets and french fries, sprayed with too much butter spray and cooked in a microwave oven. Butter popcorn.

In fact, the only meal I eat that isn't processed is supper, and I don't eat that every night. My dad cooks supper himself -- chicken or roast beef, with rice or potatoes. Last night it was spaghetti. Depending on what's cooking, I might choose to skip it altogether.

But lately, I've tried to change. My stomach protests the lack of fiber, the lack of nutrients and proteins. We're learning macromolecules and the digestive system in AP (Advanced Placement, or college-level) Biology, and I take the idea from our project on testing foods to fit a particular diet. We chose the Paleo diet, and tested chips and cookies for proteins and carbohydrates.

To do those tests, you need to crush the food with water in a mortar and pestle. And man, does chocolate chip cookie look nasty when liquefied.

The workspace above Mom's computer, which I'm using now.

 And, if I'm going to keep being honest, it has part to do with my friend. I eat lunch with her every school day. She eats things like seaweed, unbuttered popcorn, apples. Healthy stuff. While I eat Doritos and Oreos.

My diet has been a thing of shame for me. It's not that I'm fond of wrecking my body; I know processed foods are bad for me, I learned that stupid Food Pyramid in elementary school. But after a lifetime of bad diet, I haven't any courage or energy.

While of course, I'm not a scientist, I do establish a correlation between my diet and my lack of energy, my lack of will, my lack of discipline. If I cannot even reach the minimum number servings of fruits and vegetables every day, how can I keep myself to doing homework? TO being on top of my writing? To exercise at least once a week?

The change has culminated over the past few weeks. I drink more fruit juice and less sweet tea. I've been avoiding soda and milk for years, but now I've made an effort to cut out milk more effectively, in the foods I eat. We went to Wal-Mart over the weekend, and I took a deep breath and asked for apples, for gluten-free granola bars, and for oatmeal, as well as bottles of water. 

Today, I dither. It's Thanksgiving Break; I have the day off from school, as well as tomorrow and Friday, and I know I should attempt breakfast. A decently healthy one. It's after noon before I try, though.

Today, I asked my sister to help me make an omelet. Something that I've always been told is healthy, since it's of eggs, and that I assume is more healthy than chips, at least. She showed me how to mix the eggs with oregano leaves and a tiny amount of salt, how to wait for it to look somewhat like an egg pancake before I flip it over and add cheese (still a dairy product, but it's one of the only omelet toppings I know), then fold it in half.

You could say my cats are inspiration, as well.

I take a glass of juice -- 100% cranberry-blueberry-blackberry juice -- and sit down to try a bite. It tastes different. Sort of rubbery and chewy in my mouth. Bland, with a hint of that boiled-egg taste that I somewhat remember from a childhood with hard boiled eggs on weekend mornings. My stomach begins a slow burn, as if now that I've so abruptly decided on healthy, it wants to purge the processed food immediately. I'm almost afraid to use the bathroom, because I know that stomachache will only get worse, and so I stay and eat a few more bites. I take sips of juice after every bite. The juice tastes weird, like artificial blueberry flavoring mixed with just a little bit of other-juice (I've never had cranberries or blackberries to know the taste). But at least it has the consistency of normal juice. The texture of the eggs in my mouth is so foreign.

Especially Za-Zoo, who steals anyone's food.

Is it one of those things where, if I eat it often enough, I'll acquire the taste? With sweet tea, I gagged it down every morning for two weeks before I grew to like the taste. Is that how it'll be with omelet? I just need to eat it more? Or do I truly not like the taste, and no matter how much I eat it, it will be too bland and rubbery for me to like it?

Those are the sorts of thoughts that run through my mind. My eating habits seem to take over my life sometimes, worrying about why I can't make myself eat healthy, or why healthy stuff has so many acquired tastes, and that always-insidious voice that tells me that, like every other time in my life, I will simply turn back to junk food within a few days. This is not a permanent change; I cannot keep anything up; I am too weak, too undisciplined to make a real change.

Sometimes, I wish my thoughts revolved around something else. Like my writing. Or school. Or some boyfriend/girlfriend. Something normal, that normal teenagers do. Normal teenagers tweet casually about what they eat for breakfast. I try to avoid letting anyone see me eat at all.

Even writing about it here is a stretch out of my comfort zone. I worry you'll post mean comments; I worry you won't post comments at all, truly uncaring about any of this. I mean, if you don't care, is it because I'm not communicating effectively, is my writing shoddy, or perhaps you'll think this really is my strange way of casually tweeting what I had for breakfast? My hands shake thinking about what other people about my eating. But I'm sick of staying silent, of furtively taking bites of ready-made food, and swallowing it because it looks like an unbreakable pattern from childhood.

So, I told you. Perhaps I shouldn't publicize the fact that despite my skinniness, I really am of poor diet. Perhaps I should be shamed into eating healthier. But perhaps I need to tell it to make it real.

Sincerely speaking,
JDM -- a girl who loves thinking words and hates thinking food.

Chains by Laurie Halse Anderson

If an entire nation could seek its freedom, why not a girl?
As the Revolutionary War begins, thirteen-year-old Isabel wages her own fight... for freedom. Promised freedom upon the death of their owner, she and her sister, Ruth, in a cruel twist of fate become the property of a malicious New York City couple, the Locktons, who have no sympathy for the American Revolution and even less for Ruth and Isabel. When Isabel meets Curzon, a slave with ties to the Patriots, he encourages her to spy on her owners, who know details of British plans for invasion. She is reluctant at first, but when the unthinkable happens to Ruth, Isabel realizes her loyalty is available to the bidder who can provide her with freedom.
From acclaimed author Laurie Halse Anderson comes this compelling, impeccably researched novel that shows the lengths we can go to cast off our chains, both physical and spiritual.

~Print copy (library), 300 pages
Published: 2008 by Atheneum Books for Young Readers

Yes, I saw Laurie Halse Anderson's name and picked this up. I am a fan of her Speak and Wintergirls, as well.

And, also... well, I do like psychological, kidnap/slave/people-as-property stories, where the protagonist emerges from that situation and deals with the aftereffects. Which sounds wrong, but I swear, I don't get off on suffering -- I just enjoy observing psychological effects. And stories where I'm really punched in the gut by the protag's suffering. It keeps the mind empathetic.

Chains, in essence, is a historical fiction, of course, not a psychological horror/thriller story. But as I read through, I loved the metaphor, the easily-grasped way of looking at the psychology. Isabel, a slave from Rhode Island whose owner's will granted her freedom, is taken anyways to New York, where she and her sister are sold to -- well, really, the only bidders.

Through the beginnings of the war -- the signing of the Declaration of Independence, through the British occupation, to a great fire in New York City during this time -- Isabel wants nothing to do with it. All she knows are the newspaper stories, as her last owner had taught her to read, and the oppression under the Locktons. 

I don't doubt that Isabel would've considered the Locktons' treatment of her to be normal. Completely UN-oppressive. IF it hadn't been for the way Madam Lockton treated Ruth.

Because, you see, Ruth is described as simple-minded. She's five years old, has fits/seizures, and from what I gather, can't say much. Madam Lockton thinks she's possessed by the Devil, and the little girl ends up crying and in the kitchen.

Isabel, when serving Sir Lockton in his library with some of his Loyalist companions, stands in the corner and cannot help overhearing details of Loyalist plans. Because she is just a slave, and has no ears at all as far as the men are concerned.

Curzon, a slave under a Patriot, offers her a chance in a lifetime to help the Patriots by passing such information on: the Patriots will track down that lawyer with her late owner's will, giving her freedom. Freedom to go back to Rhode Island, where her mother is buried. Freedom to leave the beatings, the cold, the rags, and the humiliation of serving the Locktons. And best yet, the freedom for Ruth not to be beaten.

The characterization of this novel really brings the convoluted American Revolution to life. Even though, yes, I'm American, and I'm glad I have liberty and freedom and all that, the plight of these two slave girls -- even if they're fictional -- brings home the complicated philosophy behind an event in American history I don't pay much mind to.

There is, first of all, the issue of slavery at all. The North, contrary to some people's beliefs, DID have slavery. Despite getting riled up over liberty and equality, slavery still held strong. and the British, on the other side, weren't fond of giving these colonists liberty and equality, but they did offer some slaves their freedom, on the condition they help the British.

Except, of course, the British only offer that deal to the slaves of Patriots, to sort of undermine their economy. Slaves were still property of their owners, and there are several parts of this book where Isabel -- though clearly in the right, or at least the understandable -- is still punished for defying the Locktons, once by being branded in the face with a letter I.

And what's a really, really good part of this novel for me? There is no romance. Curzon is a friend, who helps save her life, and she's indebted to him -- but they don't fall in love. It's so rare for me to find such a book, one without romance or romantic subplots or tropes. I feel a little lighter, knowing that not all my precious YA books are filled with romance, romance, romance.

What else? ... Did I make my opinion of Isabel clear? She's a pretty strong girl. She bears the weight of lifetimes on her shoulders, and still gets up every morning for a day of hard, back-breaking work. Her suffering, repeatedly, is referred to as "ashes" and "bees" under her skin, choking her throat, buzzing in her brain and pushing her thoughts out. She is and should be, by all rights, miserable. (I won't name specifics. Read the book.) But it doesn't leave her staring passively out a window like a certain vampire's wife we know in a muddle on the cellar floor.

It's not just her strength to stand up, though. It's her strength to stand up for her freedom. Like I mentioned, she got branded in the face for her "insolence." She visits the prison where hundreds/thousands of rebel soldiers were captured and imprisoned, to feed them scraps and "conversate," as she puts it. (Did I mention voice? This has unique antiquated-American dialect here, but not enough to make the book obscure or difficult to read.) Madam could have her sold, beaten, branded, or hung on a whim, if she finds out.

Even the ending -- a part of the novel I usually dislike -- was pretty good. I didn't realize it had a sequel until pretty much the last page (Forge), but it didn't just, like, let off. It ended with enough closure to satisfy me.

Overall, while it's not catch-my-spark material (It's not Doctor Who, Artemis Fowl, and Harry Potter all rolled into one), it is a lovely read. I enjoyed it. I would recommend it to anyone who loves a good, unique, strong voice, with no romance and good setting. 4 stars.

 

9/11 and Terrorism

It's the 11th of September... and in America, that means remembering tragedy.

I cannot remember the day this actually happened. It was 2001; I was five years old, a kindergartener whose only thoughts belonged to curiosity and books. But as I grew up, I heard the story, over and over, every year: the planes, the crash, the death and terror and mourning. Especially of the heroes, the firemen and police officers, and the civilians all doing the right thing when it was far from easy.

Sometimes, I am glad I am young enough that I do not remember that. That on such a terrible day, ignorance was bliss. I lost no one but fellow countrymen. Which, now that I'm old enough, I realize is bad enough. Can you imagine it? Just for a second? Being buried under rubble, your breath catching, smoke trying to cough its way out of your lungs? I am lucky not to have any relatives who died in the 9/11 attacks, but I am sorry and horrified by the deaths of strangers.

And that might sound strange, to be sorry for the deaths of strangers, when I can't even remember the attack. This is a desensitized culture, after all -- we aren't sorry when we hear of the Bubonic Plague, when 2/3 of Europe's population was wiped out. But we are also a culture that becomes outraged over the death of one boy; in the age of digital information and digital personal relations, we freak out over smaller disasters. And, of course, I am not immune to culture. It probably doesn't help that I have an over-reactive imagination and a writer's tendency to dwell on internal conflict.

So, yes -- on this day, of all days, I can feel both sad at the deaths of strangers over ten years ago, and very lucky that I do not remember it. It's a strange feeling, to be sure -- it's not distant, like hearing of the earthquake in Japan, but it's not as immediate as a death of a family member.

And what compounds such a feeling is the fact that another human being is behind this. I will not add my opinion about Osama Bin Laden and whether he's dead and whether that happened in the ethical way. I do wonder, though, how a human being -- a person who breathes, or breathed -- a person who knows or knew that we are also humans, that we are also sentient creatures, could knowingly cause such harm. It's hard to wrap my mind around. He's like a storybook villain, the way he's portrayed to Us Youngsters. But what is the psychology behind such a thing? What went on in that head while planes crashed and people died? It's morbidly fascinating question, one where you know the behavior is wrong but you still have to wonder why the person is doing it, what past experiences made this sort of behavior a viable option.

Which, while I'm sure the information is out there somewhere -- published in some book or science journal -- I'm not perfectly sure I want to know. It's enough just to feel, for one profound Moment of Silence after the Pledge of Allegiance is spoken, the full ramifications of actual human suffering. My cynical side tells me that there is no justification, and anyways, I am generally not one for searching out information. But my nicer side just wants to spend a moment remembering heroes, and a moment of humility remembering how easy I could be remembering more than a stranger's death on this day.

But now, I do not want to be profound and deep-dark-thoughtful. I want to live a life free and deep. The life I can live, because terrorism failed to terrify us for long. Because it just saddens us once a year, and because it can seem like a faraway event, a world away.

So, instead of continuing to pontificate upon personal feelings, I found a couple of my favorite songs. Old favorite songs, that I knew in childhood and occasionally still listen to, especially on the day they're written about.

 

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess

Adrift in the impersonal, iron-gray society of the superstate, the novel's main character, 15-year-old Alex, leads his gang of teenage rockers in all-night orgies of random violence and destruction.
Told in a slang as electric as the events described, this is Alex's story -- of rapes and stompings and rumbles with the police, of prison life and the frightful "Ludovico Technique" by which Alex is "reconditioned" into a model citizen, and of his subsequent adventures as a mindless pawn in the cynical hands of the authorities.

~Print copy, 169 pages
First Published: 1965 by Ballantine Books

 Well, doesn't that summary just make him sound like a victim?

Let me start this off saying that it wasn't the voice that drove me away; it was the character. The voice is quite unique; I had to peek in the glossary every two sentences, but once I got the gist of the slang, it became easier and a smoother read.

But the character I have no sympathy for. Alex does worse than "nothing to endear him to me" -- he, during the course of the novel, asks the reader to feel sorry for him, like some slimy character asking for forgiveness just to stab you in the back again. He ends up in jail for rape and murder; not because of the "cynical hands of the authorities" but of his own volition. He tries to force control over a gang of his "droogs", and one of them leaves him for the authorities to deal with.

And then, there's the Ludovico Technique. I reserve my own opinions about that -- this post will not end up a discussion of choice vs. crime -- but I will say this: I have learned from this book never to sign contracts without reading them.And, of course, that Alex is not any more endearing because he went through this technique -- *mock-sob* poorvictim -- because he's the idiot that signed over his own choice.

Not to say, though, it isn't interesting to note that not only is he conditioned against violence by making him sick, the background music of the violent films he watched also made him sick. (Note to self: Post later on classical conditioning?) Amazing how it's the details that catch us up, and sometimes come back to haunt us.

I give this book a three (which is, generally, my lowest rating). From a literary standpoint, this is an interesting novel -- a look into the mind of a criminal, unique voice, all that jazz -- but if you're just reading this for fun, I have the feeling you'll turn your nose up at the main character, too -- which makes it awful hard to like.

     

[I could go into a lot more detail, but I made this post pretty short. Have you read this supposed classic, and do you have an opinion? Feel free to elaborate or refute my opinions!]

The Lost Conspiracy by Frances Hardinge

On an island of sandy beaches, dense jungles, and slumbering volcanoes, colonists seek to apply archaic laws to a new land, bounty hunters stalk the living for the ashes of their funerary pyres, and a smiling tribe is despised by all as traitorous murderers. It is here, in the midst of ancient tensions and new calamity, that two sisters are caught in a deadly web of deceits.
Arilou is proclaimed a beautiful prophetess -- one of the island's precious oracles: a Lost. Hathin, her junior, is her nearly invisible attendant. But neither Arilou nor Hathin is exactly what she seems, and they live a lie that is carefully constructed and jealously guarded. 
When the sisters are unknowingly drawn into a sinister, island-wide conspiracy, quiet, unobtrusive Hathin must journey beyond all she has ever known of her world -- and of herself -- in a desperate attempt to save them both. As the stakes mount and falsehoods unravel, she discovers that the only thing more dangerous than the secret she hides is the truth she must uncover.

~Print copy (library), 566 pages
Published: 2009 by Harper

This book was really beautiful.

I don't say this because I think only a select few novels are beautiful, and this happens to be one of them. No, all books are beautiful, no matter whether I think they're beautiful or not. But this book stands out in the sea of beautiful-ness. (What a horribly cliche line. Wow.)

Let me explain what was so beautiful about this novel that made me sit up and notice:

First of all, there is the world. The worldbuilding is a large part of this novel -- that would be why it's over 500 pages long.

But it is a spectacular world, filled with Ashwalkers who kill murderers in order to wear a cloth dipped in their ashes; the Lace, a native tribe that is always smiling and have jewels in their teeth, and whose names are meant to echo natural sounds so they are forgotten by the precious volcanoes they live under; and there is the Lost, a group of people who have the natural ability to untangle their five senses from their body and cast them out into the world, therefore bringing news from all over the island back to their home village.  

That, right there, is a fully imagined, richly decorated world. It is the sort of worldbuilding I aspire to when I sit down to write the umpteenth draft of my first novel. It is a fantasy lover's dream come true.

But that is not all about this novel. Then there are the characters.

Arilou is a Lost Lace girl, whose name is meant to echo the sound of an owl. But it is suspected by the entire village -- never spoken aloud, in case of an eavesdropping Lost -- that Arilou isn't really a Lost. Perhaps she is just an imbecile.* And when a Lost inspector shows up to test her, and dies right there, people naturally panic.

Hathin, Arilou's little sister and nurse, has a name meant to mimic the settling of dust. She goes unnoticed; that is, until she escapes from the colonists who blame the Inspector's death on the hated Lace. Then, she must travel the island and hop away from her enemies, all the while dragging insensible Arilou. Hathin is really my favorite character; perhaps it's because I'm unnoticeable myself, but I really connected with her.

Later on, another group comes to the foreplay: a group of revenge-seeking Lace called the Reckoning. But these venture into the middle of the novel and I don't want to give away too many threads of the plot.

Which brings me to the complicated plot.

Seriously, this plot, despite its complexity, just sort of unfolds organically. This is the first time in a long while that I've actually been satisfied with the ending; it's the first time in awhile since I've really gotten myself lost in the middle part of the book. Each part builds on the last part, until it's built itself a mountain of plot. Not like Mt. Everest mountain plot, but like any number of smaller mountains that even the most average person could climb. (This metaphor got a little out of hand. Sorry.)

In retrospect -- who am I kidding? While reading this book -- I can't help but marvel on the comment of how mythology and tradition can impact lives. These Lace believe that their names should be forgotten, so the volcanoes forget them. These people travel around the volcanoes, even though it takes longer; they believe they can't set foot on them without either being shielded by dead people's ashes or by asking favor from the volcanoes themselves.  The colonists give the best farmland to the ashes of their dead ancestors; in fact, the reasons their colonist ancestors came over to the island 200 years earlier was to use the island as a mass cemetery, because the ashes of their dead are that important to them.

Tradition, mythology, belief systems; they are a lot more powerful than reason. While reading this book, I didn't see the natural rock slides of a mountain, or natural lakes set in the mountain, or other normal volcano activity; I saw what the Lace saw, how the volcano was giving them a blessing or showing their wrath for trespassing. I saw how a flower growing on the main volcano (the King of Fans) was a gift to the neighboring mountain, the Lady Sorrow.

This book was really powerful, really beautiful. I would recommend this to anyone, even if you don't like fantasy; it puts aside your reason and disbelief and transforms an imaginary world into a rich, beautiful world that is more exotic and exciting than Narnia or Middle Earth. 5 stars.

 
 *That is a term the novel uses, by the way -- I don't imply that I think the mentally handicapped are imbeciles. My sister has Down Syndrome; trust me, I know that they aren't imbeciles in the way people think they are.

Follow Friday #39

Follow  Friday is a weekly meme hosted by Alison Can Read and Parajunkee.

Q: Have you ever read a book you thought you would hate -- ? Did you end up hating it? Did you end up loving it? Or would you never do that?

Well, I have and probably will in the future. I'm going to take this to mean not merely that indifferent feeling, like you don't really feel like picking up the book but you don't really have anything against it. I believe you mean, you really, truly think you're going to hate this book.

I really like to avoid this situation, if possible. Self-fulfilling prophecy, anyone? You go into a book already knowing you're going to hate it, so you end up proving yourself right. You end up hating it simply because you thought you would hate it when you picked it up.

But, of course, being a student, I simply have to read books I hate sometimes. And, because I'm also a reader who still likes to cling to the belief that all books are beautiful, I also have to come across books I hate sometimes. Fact of life: beauty is subjective, so not all books are beautiful to me; but they might be beautiful to other people.

Take Twilight. I went into this with that iffy, already-kinda-hating-it-from-the-summary feeling. I forced myself through the other three, as well, out of pure stubbornness. Hated them, with the possible exception of New Moon. And I only liked that one because I liked Bella's pain. (I know, I'm a mean reader.) On the upside, I can say that I don't hate them just because of the hype; I hated them because I've read them. They start off kind of iffy and they don't get any better.

The Scarlet Letter by Nathanial Hawthorne? Had to read that a couple years ago for an English assignment, and I hated it when I saw it. Of course, I hated it plenty more ten pages in, twenty, a hundred... and that was before I did the assignment attached to it. Bleh.

I'm trying to think of a book that I thought I'd hate but ended up liking it... I suppose there's I'd Tell You I Love You But Then I'd Have to Kill You by Ally Carter. It was one of those books that I didn't really like the sound of, but I randomly promise to myself that I'll read it and I just have to keep that promise. So, I ended up doing so -- despite it being a romance -- and it's still on my greater-favorites bookshelf, along with the next two books in the series. I can't remember if I loved it that much, or if I'm simply too lazy to take them off the bookshelf.

Anyways, that's my list. Do you read books that you're sure you'll hate? If so, what books? Did you end up liking or hating it?

Have a blessed Friday and weekend!

Montmorency: Thief, Liar, Gentleman? by Eleanor Updale

When a petty thief falls through a glass roof in his attempt to escape the police, what should have been the death of him marks the beginning of a whole new life, After his broken body is reconstructed by an ambitious young doctor, he is released from prison, and -- with the help of Victorian London's extensive sewer system -- he becomes the most elusive burglar in the city. He adopts a dual existence as a respectable, wealthy gentleman named Montmorency and his degenerate servant Scarper. But Montmorency must always be on his guard. The smallest mistake could reveal his secret and ruin both his lives.
Eleanor Updale's writing is witty and wholly original. With a unique perspective and a voice reminiscent of Edgar Allen Poe, Montmorency is a cleverly told, gripping adventure story.

~Print copy (from the library)
Published: 2003 by Orchard Books

I've read this book before. So, immediately, you know that this is a book that caught my spark.

Where to begin?

First off, I like that name. Montmorency. It rolls off the tongue. It sounds really dramatic and exotic and a cool name to have if you're a character from an adventure novel.

I love the premise. Montmorency, or Prisoner 493, is broken; a young doctor by the name Farcett stitches him up again... and shows off his nearly-naked body as a science exhibit for the Scholarly Circle (not the actual name of the group). You know, the rich, snooty scientists, who examine his body as if 493 is not a human being but some sort of practice mannequin. A doll, with scars to show off, so the doctor can tell the crowd how he fixed this problem on his thigh and ask how he might get into that wound on his back.

So, when Montmorency gets out of prison, he writes a note. He dresses like a servant and delivers that note to a fancy hotel, which tells the manager to rent out a suite with a good view to a Montmorency -- meanwhile, he, as the servant Scarper, would prepare the room for his master.

Quite an ingenious plan, really. He learned of the sewer system in one of those scholarly meeting, and he decides to use those sewers to get around the city, stealing valuables and then just dropping down into the filth, out of sight, while the police search vainly aboveground.

As I said, genius premise. I think it kind of speaks for itself.

I really like Montmorency the character, as well. For a prisoner, servant, and snooty elite, he was a good choice for POV. (In 3rd person, of course.) He had freedoms the rich didn't have, and he had the money most servants didn't have, and as a prisoner he'd attended those lectures to show him off, and he learned a great deal from them -- a luxury most prisoners didn't have.

More than that, he was devious and quick-minded, and a darn good actor. He is, of course, morally ambigious and a criminal, but Updale wrote this cleverly enough that he's a really likeable criminal.

My third point: the adventure. The action. His getting around society and fooling everybody makes for a good story, and I didn't mention the surprise at the end. I kind of thought it almost abrupt, that last quarter or so of the book; but in retrospect, you can look back and see how it built up to it. I'm not telling you that ending.

I didn't really have anything against this book. Or if I did, I didn't really notice. I give this a definite 5 stars.

 

On My Mind (and its Contents)

What have I been thinking?

• I have not posted on a Wednesday in awhile.
• I should join Twitter. I've never actually seen its homepage, but it couldn't be that difficult to navigate....
• I really don't want to continue writing the second draft of my novel. The first draft was hard enough.
• I should really continue writing my second draft. Halfway through it already, right?
• I want it to be Friday already. Or, even better, Saturday.
• Ooh, aluminum foil! Shiny.
• I should look into agents and the publishing industry more. I should also look into colleges.
• Wow, what possessed me to think of trying 4 AP classes next year? Isn't senior year a time to slacken off a little?
• Ugh. I have a math test tomorrow. And chemistry. (Because just chemistry class is enough to make me dread odd days.)
• Rorshach inkblot test!
• The weather needs to make up its mind. Last Friday, it was snowing. Today, it was almost 80 degrees outside. (Farenheit, thankfully. If it had been 80 degrees celsius, I would have melted.) 
• Vault of Souls. The Sunset Decades. Or the Sunset Century. Those sound like cool titles. Not strictly relevant to my novel, but I can always write another novel that does fit. In fact... *Plots dastardly conflict*

My mind doesn't stick to one topic. As you can see. This post is mainly here because I felt I was blog-slacking. I haven't posted anything but book reviews and Follow Fridays. Gotta step up my game, man.

Anyways, I'll try to find something worth writing about on Wednesdays. Any suggestions on what you want me to write about?

Ooh! A poll in the sidebar, asking for what you want. Seriously, I'm writing stuff off the top of my head without any clue as to whether you actually care about my random bletherings. Please vote on what you'd like to see more of. (Within reason. I am a stay-at-home teenager.)

Anyways... I've already run out of things to say. Gracious wisdom ...*grumble*fakeswear*... -- please vote. Have a blessed weekend I mean, Wednesday!

The Butterfly Clues by Kate Ellison

Penelope "Lo" Marin has always loved to collect beautiful things.
But in the year since her bother's death, Lo's hoarding has blossomed into a full-blown, potentially dangerous obsession. When she discovers a beautiful antique butterfly figurine and recognizes it as having been stolen from the home of a recently murdered girl known only as Sapphire, Lo becomes fixated.
As she attempts to piece together the mysterious "butterfly clues", with the unlikely help of a street artist named Flynt, Lo quickly finds herself caught up in a seedy, violent underworld -- a world much closer to home than she ever imagined.
Kate Ellison's debut novel is a tour de force thriller about a girl whose obsessive-compulsive collecting leads her down a dangerous path of secrets, mystery, and murder -- where every clue she uncovers could be her last.

~Print copy, 325 pages (from the library)
Published: 2012 by Egmont USA


This book is about a girl with OCD who accidently happens to be there when a girl is murdered.

She was not a witness, per se, but she was standing outside an apartment when a gun shot fires. She runs, making it home on the bus, but the next day, when she hears about the girl who was murdered in that part of town ("Neverland"), she looks it up. The house she had been next to when the gun fired was the home of a strip-club dancer, Sapphire, who was raped and murdered.

Lo visits a flea market the next day, where she finds a man who is selling a butterfly figurine and a horse pendant, both of which were missing from Sapphire's apartment when the police found her body. She confronts the seller about it, who swears he had nothing to do with it and gives her the butterfly figurine for free. Lo feels obligated to help figure out the killer, having been there and now owning the dead girl's figurine.

What did I think about this novel, really? I did enjoy reading it. A lot. It wasn't my favorite, but it was worth reading.

First off, there's Lo. She has an obsession with the numbers 3, 6, and especially 9. She compulsively steals things. But she wasn't represented as a freak, or someone who "has" to get better by the end of the book. She didn't need "help". She was represented as a real person, and her "urges" were real.

I'm not going into a rant about how people with mental disorders aren't "freaks" (because really, I don't think I need to). But I did enjoy that Lo was as real as any character I've read in my favorite books -- Artemis Fowl, Harry Potter, Emily Strange.

I felt Lo was kind of weak at times, truth admits, but I couldn't fault her for it. Not just because of her mental disorder, but because her brother died, and she was coping the best she could, and sometimes that slowed her down. Like how she had to tap her thighs nine times and say "banana" before she could enter a place: not really useful when running from a killer. But she had to, it made her feel safe. And really, that's what makes this book not-hateful: you can connect with Lo because her habits make her feel safe. And who doesn't have something they do, some small tic, to make themselves feel better?

Secondly, I love the ending. Everything ties together, like it should. The author really did a good job with that: everything was cleared up, everything made sense. It was lovely, a real nice ending.

Which leads me to a point I semi-hated: the romance. There was nothing wrong with this romance; actually, it was an element of the plot that tied into the ending pretty well, too. But I just dislike romance in general. There was a part that got semi-sexual, but they didn't do anything besides make out (which was described in detail).

Also, the setting was a strip club in Neverland for a good portion of the book. She applies for a job there, so she can talk to the other girls about Sapphire. This was not a smart idea, in my opinion -- how do you turn that sort of job down without raising suspicion? It's kind of assumed in this poor neighborhood that you needed the money, or you wouldn't have applied. But I can agree to let a character have at least one bad decision. The setting descriptions, I couldn't picture exactly, just in jagged points -- a tree here, a birdbath there, how many of this or that -- but I got enough of a picture to imagine it.

The writing itself was beautiful, though. It was sort of Laurie Halse Anderson meets Eoin Colfer (the author of Speak meets the author of Artemis Fowl). Laurie Halse Anderson because of how Ellison points out just the right details and in just the right way to make it seem like actual thought. And Eoin Colfer because of the ending, how you can almost see everything tying itself together, but you don't guess the ending. I mean, you can't guess the ending, but you can see how everything led up to it. It was really unique, really. Managing to be compared to two of my favorite authors, but still sounding like a unique voice, is pretty spiffy. I'm vaguely impressed.

Overall, there wasn't much I hated. It didn't quite catch my spark (though it came awful close) but it was well worth a read. 4.25 stars (which we all should remember means we round down).