Dear Ashley Poston,

I discovered you a month or so ago at the Champions Barnes & Noble Booksellers because The Woodlands store's without. All the time. And I decided to make the trek to the other store because I have very much needed to escape into some GOOD literature. I always mean to support Jenny Lawson's Nowhere Bookshop. MUST do so, starting now.

When I was in college or when I could hole up in my room without worrying my mother, I read about love and life so I could hope to know both some day. Too sheltered was I, and yet, so lacking in innocence. I disappeared, something I'd never been able to do before, and trust me, I'd tried HARD to be invisible. At some point, though, stories stopped being a solace. Maybe because I'd become too jaded. Or maybe because the publishing industry'd begun its decades-long affair with dystopia and destruction, monsters and mayhem. I'd known enough of that in my life. I didn't need nor want to read about it. So I stopped reading. And then... the store manager introduced me to you.

Reading The Seven Year Slip took a matter of hours, and so eager was I to read more of your work, I rushed to the mall--no time for driving to Champions!--the day after that to get The Dead Romantics. Gushed about the first story to as many women as I could find. Even sold a few copies for you. And made myself wait until today to read this other: The Dead Romantics. Bought it without knowing anything about it. And then read the back, and part of me thought, this one sounds a bit too weird. I worried I wouldn't like it. So waiting a couple days wasn't that much of a challenge. I chose your book, too, to fit a category for Book Challenge by Erin. I started it at nine am. Would've read it straight through and had it finished at half past three, except I had a two-ish hour physical therapy appointment. What I've loved:

Whenever I came to visit the offices, I was always hyperaware of how people took one look at me--in my squeaky flats and darned hose and too-big plaid overcoat--and came to the conclusion that I was not tall enough to ride this ride(page 4).

It was like one day I knew how to write; I knew the scenes, knew the meet-cutes and the swoony moments, exactly how the hero tasted when my heroine kissed him... and the next day it was all gone (page 18).

THIS. SO many times in my life. T H I S. And everyone assumes writing is so easy, so fun, so magical. It can be. I've written pages in an hour before. And then I've sat at my laptop or with my pad and pen for nine hours and written nothing. The last time I felt like writing was seven years ago or so. And I should be. Or so people say. Sometimes so I say. God knows my professors would say so.

It should've been easy--a grand romantic gesture, a beautiful proposal, a happily ever after. The kind my parents had, and I'd spent my entire life looking for one just as grand... I just wanted what my parents had... I wanted that. I searched for that. And then I realized, standing in the rain that April evening, almost a year ago exactly--I'd never have that (page 28).

Ironic that this is on page 28. I lost the only man I've ever loved on April 28. The losing began twelve days before. It was sunny at my San Antonio apartment and sunny at his. But the stretch of 410 between his and mine? It started raining right around the 281 interchange and hailing at I-10. I should've turned around. I should've gone home. Hell, the night he met me at IHOP and we gave each other Tarot card readings and I'd asked the cards (silently, of course) whether he was my guy (because we'd been emailing for about week, and I was already hooked) to have him flip over the Ace of Spades (the death card... Cue Carmen and her deadly music), I should have gone home THEN. Oh but it's Tarot cards and they mean nothing and I LIKE this one. Oh but it's rain and springtime in Texas and I LOVE this one... So on the sixteenth he'd held me, one arm wrapped around me, my hand resting on his shirt, our legs entwined and run his mouth about how he really liked me and enjoyed spending time with me, but he felt like things were headed for serious and he didn't want that... I should've gone home when his answer to my request for tissues was toilet paper, when he'd said after I'd wiped my tears that he was going to frame it and call it Jenn's Tears. Who does that? Longhorned electrical engineers who sucker punch romance writers bleeding maroon. This was two decades ago. No man's crushed my heart so well as he. And reading about the man who crushed Florence's. You did this well, woman. You did this well. And I knew I would never have it, either. Before him. But I'd forgotten. Carmen reminded me why.

I could go up there. I could read something I jotted down on my phone a while back. I could put a little bit of creativity into the world that seemed to want to suck it from your very marrow.... because storybook love only existed for a very few--like my parents. They were the exception to the rule, not the rule itself. It was rare, and it was fleeting. Love was a high for a moment that left you hollow when it left... (page 41).

Amen.

...and you spent the rest of your life chasing that feeling. A false memory, too good to be true... (41).

He said later that he'd thought I'd colored my memories with emotions, and those memories were different for me than him. He'd tried to make me doubt what I'd felt, to belittle it, to deny it, to make me feel more foolish than I was. And oh, was I foolish. For two decades, I've told myself I know nothing of love. Eight years ago, I'd convinced myself this was truth. And then I stopped writing. Hard to pick up the pen again when you know you're a fraud. Can't write what you don't know.

...and I'd been fooling myself for far too long, believing in Grand Romantic Gestures and Happily Ever Afters. Those weren't written for me. I wasn't the exception. I was the rule (41).

"It's not me being stuck unalive, it's you" (page 150).

A few weeks ago, I sat in a therapist's office and let her do some muscle testing on me. She stopped, withdrew a laminated page and all but slammed it down before me. Normally I watch her work but things had gone south fast during this session, and I'd struggled to hold on to the happy I felt. The card made it worse. An ugly red circle, outlined in black and bearing in that same black the word STUCK glared at me. Why was I stuck, she wondered. I could think of a thousand reasons. She'd said I had an idea allergy, and what could that be? I'm stuck in this life. I'm allergic to living. All I've wanted since I was eight years old was death. But God keeps waking me up. I tell myself it's because He wants me to love. I don't know how. I am as unalive as a girl can be without being dead. Mostly dead. I am mostly dead. And your book is about a man helping a woman who is mostly dead. All I've ever learned from love is how to shoot somebody who outdrew me. The romantic in me wishes a man like Ben could come along and help me believe in love again. But... men don't see me. I've done a remarkably good job of ensuring that.

I tried love. It didn't work. The end. There were bigger things in my life that I had to tackle than something so frivolous (page 150).

Yeah. Those first three sentences are truth. The last is the lie I tell myself that needs to be truth. Because somewhere in some cell that sleeps is the knowledge that love is the thing.

Have you seen a ghost float through, by any chance? Six foot sexy, with just a hint of nerd? (page 152).

"I read a book once that changed me. And I realized I wanted to help writers write more books like that, and find more books like that, and give them the chance they wouldn't have otherwise (page 154).

I studied literature in college but never read any of the assigned texts. I buried my nose in romance novels, so desperate was I to know love, so desperate was I to believe I could love and be loved. One spring I read Nora Roberts' dream trilogy and thought enough of myself and my ability to craft fiction that I made up, eventually, eight characters, four couples. Because I'd wanted to do for others what Nora had done for me. To put hope in someone's heart that maybe someday...

"I don't know how to finish Ann's manuscript."

He cocked his head. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't know how. I ... I don't think I can" (page 155).

I don't know how to finish mine. I have failed my characters, these imaginary friends I made up, some of them as far back as 27 years ago. They became my children when I had none of my own. I want so much to give them their much deserved happy endings, because they ARE SO good, even the manwhore whom I know eventually redeems himself. I gave up on love. And then they gave up on me.

"We've all got ghosts, Florence. You just happen to be the only one who can't handle yours (page 162).

I didn't know exactly what I wanted.

But it wasn't what I had (page 177).

I missed those days. When I could write. When I didn't just sleep all day, and stare at my ceiling all night and scroll through Twitter to see who else in the writing community got book deals and went on tour and hit bestseller lists. It was a certain kind of soul-sucking year I'd had, and I didn't realize how empty I was until I needed to write. 

And by then, I couldn't (pages 186-7).

And the author is tired. And maybe she was never good at writing to begin with. Maybe she never really understood romance. Maybe she's not cutout for love stories--"

He leaned in close to me--so close that if he were alive, I would be able to smell the cologne he wore, the toothpaste he brushed with, the shampoo he used--and he said in a low voice, "Or maybe she just needs someone to show her that she is" (page 190).

The basement door had a latch on the outside but it was unlocked. When I'd been trapped down there for a night, I hadn't been afraid of the corpses in the freezers. They were like shells, and when the person was done with them, the shell cracked and broke (page 195).

I... never thought of myself, my story, my life as anything more than a boring book shelved in a boring library in a boring town (page 213).

Plenty of people would say my life's not boring, that I'm not. Hard to believe otherwise when you crawl into an empty bed every night, and every day is almost exactly as the one before.

But for today, I lived in your story, and it was lovely. Thank you.

Dandelion Wine

So first of all... the New Year's Resolution was to reclaim a usage of capital letters. I struggled with whether to make Picky exempt from this because for nearly fifteen years I have refrained, but... a resolution's a resolution, so... capitals.

Why I wanted to read it: Last year, my parents and I saw The Bookshop in River Oaks Theater in Houston, and two of the characters in that film read it. My mother used to teach it; it is a favorite of hers, and also of my father's. I thought I'd give it a go.

What I loved: SO, SO much. It is damned near perfect. The best thing about it is how involved you become in the characters' plights... as if you're watching a ball on a roulette table go click... click... click... and take FOREVER to stop. Bradbury's a genius at building suspense. He's a genius at carrying themes throughout this collection of vignettes. He's a genius at creating a town and fostering an appreciation for its inhabitants.

What sucked: NOTHING.

Having said all that: READ IT.

the lord of the rings

why i wanted to read it: because i LOVE the movies and the story, and it's been on my to do list for decades.

what i liked: i listened to it on audio, yall, so i can't share specific lines. good god, tolkien's world-building ability is amazing. his descriptions are beautiful. his mastery of language is astounding. his creativity is enviable.

meriadoc brandybuck and peregrin took are my favorite characters. SUCH fearlessness and curiosity. i love, LOVE samwise gamgee and wish like hell i could have a friend as dedicated as he. SUCH loyalty. i listened to the second book, then the third and finished with the first, and am so glad i did because the memory of sam's steadfast love and resoluteness are such beautiful things.

what sucked: the songs.

having said that. READ IT, people. it's damned fine storytelling.

because one reading challenge isn't enough

okay. so i'm gonna try my hand at this year's pop sugar reading challenge. i spent the morning at brio's with a couple of friends chewing over the list and the books on my to-be-read shelves and have come up with this list:

one. a book becoming a movie in 'nineteen. the rosie project by graeme simsion.

two. a book that makes you nostalgic. every last word by tamara ireland stone.
three. a book written by a musician (fiction or nonfiction). this life i live by rory feek.

four. a book becoming you think should be turned into a movie. the last summer of you and me by anna brashares.

five. a book with at least a million goodreads' ratings. the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime by haddon.

six. a book with a plant in the title or on the cover. the care and handling of roses with thorns by margaret dilloway.

seven. a reread of a favorite book. lovers and dreamers by nora roberts.

eight. a book about a hobby. let's pretend this never happened by jenny lawson.

nine. a book you meant to read in 'eighteen. elinor oliphant is completely fine by gail honeyman.

ten. a book with pop, sugar or challenge in the title. the sugar queen by sarah addison allen.

eleven. a book with an item of clothing or accessory on the cover. the seven rules of elvira carr by maynard.

twelve. a book inspired by myth/legend/folklore. the lord of the rings by j.r.r. tolkien.

thirteen. a book published posthumously. the guernsey literary and potato peel pie society by shaffer and barrows.

fourteen. a book you see someone reading on television or in a movie. dandelion wine by ray bradbury.

fifteen. a retelling of a classic. alice i have been by melanie benjamin.

sixteen. a book with a question in the title. where'd you go bernadette by maria semple.

seventeen a book set on a college or university campus. maybe someday by colleen hoover.

eighteen. a book about someone with a superpower. miss peregrine's home for peculiar children by simsion.

nineteen. a book told from multiple points of view. the bookshop at water's end by patti callahan henry.

twenty. a book set in space. the martian by andy weir.

twenty-one. a book by two female authors. between the lines by jodi picoult and samantha van leer.

twenty-two. a book with salty, sweet, bitter or spicy in the title. hotel on the corner of bitter and sweet by jamie ford.

twenty-three. a book set in scandinavia. bear town by fredrik backman.

twenty-four. a book that takes place in a single day. one hundred two minutes by jim dwyer and kevin flynn.

twenty-five. a debut novel. reconstructing amelia by kimberly mcreight.

twenty-six. a book that's published in 'nineteen. all we could have been by t.e. carter.

twenty-seven. a book featuring an extinct or imaginary creature. the hobbit by j.r.r. tolkien.

twenty-eight. a book recommended by a celebrity you admire. where the crawdads sing by delia owens.

twenty-nine. a book with love in the title. love walked in by marisa de los santos.

thirty. a book featuring an amateur detective. the lake house by kate morton.

thirty-one. a book about a family. the weird sisters by eleanor brown.

thirty-two. a book by an author from asia, africa or s. america. the number one ladies' detective agency by smith.

thirty-three. a book with a zodiac sign or astrology term in the title. water for elephants by sara gruen.

thirty-four. a book that includes a wedding. the glass kitchen by linda francis lee.

thirty-five. a book by one whose first and last names begin with the same letter. probability of miracles by wunder.

thirty-six. a ghost story. a room away from the wolves by nova ren suma.

thirty-seven. a book with a two-word title. saving june by hannah harrington.

thirty-eight. a novel based on a true story. the promise by ann weisgarber.

thirty-nine. a book revolving around a puzzle or a game. legendary by stephanie garber.

forty. your favorite prompt from a past popsugar reading challenge. furiously happy by jenny lawson.

tell me three things

why i wanted to read it: fuck if i know. it was on a table. i was buying GREAT books to go into a care package i'm sending to some girls i met when touring my college's campus during its founder's weekend celebration. somehow, and i really can't say why, it caught my attention. maybe it was the waffles on the cover. maybe it was the title. maybe it's because i can be, at times, a stupid girl. and this was definitely one of those times.

what i liked: it's been 747 days and still i have not learned how to talk about any of this. i mean, i can talk about how i bought the toilet paper, how we were broken, how i was broken. but i still haven't found the words to talk about my mom. the real her. to remember who she was in a way that doesn't make me keel over.

i don't know how to do that yet. 

sometimes it feels like i've forgotten how to talk altogether... if i was going to be held captive by a wicked stepmother, surely there are worse places i could have ended up than living in the pages of architectural digest... the problem was that mom wasn't here. that she would never be anywhere again. when i thought about that for too long, which i didn't, when i could help it, i realized it didn't matter much where i slept (page 38).

rut seemed too small a word for grief... sometimes when scarlett says i'm strong, i think she really means i'm numb (page 40).

i bet i would have liked him better then, when he read marvel comics instead of sartre, when he didn't wrangle with all the hard questions and come out the other end sad or angry or tired or whatever it is he is (page 58).

what sucked: pretty much everything else. boy decides he's too afraid to speak to the new girl, but really wants to so he (somehow) gets her email address so he can counsel her on who to know and how to cope. i knew who the dude was before i'd read a fifth of the story. so much for secretive. but then, maybe i was supposed to figure it out. still... i would've preferred the surprise. i do love surprises. it's about about a gal coping with the loss of her mother and being uprooted from chicago to california after her father comes home from what she thinks is a business trip to announce he's married someone else. there's GOBS and GOBS of shell shock here. EXCELLENT material for conflict, but it's SO watered down, the storytelling so pitifully executed that it feels more like middle grade fiction than a young adult novel.

having said that: the author, who lost her mother at a young age so she knows that of which she writes (and should have done a MUCH better job because of this), addresses the reader in a letter between the concluding page and the acknowledgements: i decided to combine the loneliness of first loss with something much more magical and universal: the beauty of first love. she should've tried harder, for there's neither magic nor beauty to be found here. it's mediocre at best with regard to the writing and the story, horribly cliched and predictable as hell.

emily and einstein

why i wanted to read it: because i liked the title and the look and feel of the cover (but, yall, i'm really weird about paper, so maybe don't put too much stock into that one, yeah?), and these two things:

(from the back cover): emily portman is an up-and-coming new york city editor whose life is everything she imagined it would be. she has a job she loves and a beautiful upper west side apartment with her husband, sandy. but everything changes in one night, when sandy dies in a tragic accident, and emily is stunned to discover that her marriage was made up of lies.

okay. not the name of the dude so much, and definitely not the inclusion of tragic in describing the accident that kills him (because redundant), but...

in my favorite english class, taught by the fantastic dr. william weitzel, whose instruction i do miss -- that man was a genius -- we spent weeks discussing tennyson's idylls of the king (a book i did not read, by the way... we'd just finished our mutual friend, and i was depressed because we couldn't spend the whole semester talking about how awesome it is). but i remember weitzel's fascination with how this one bad thing that starts out so small can become so huge and wreak such havoc, a germ inside of a beautiful bubble. sandy's the germ; i wanted to see just how bad he could be. and yall, he's a DICK who most definitely deserved to die.

then there's this bit his wife says about him: sandy portman drew me in, like the draft of a manuscript where perfectly constructed sentences hinted at but didn't yet reveal a deeper truth (page 11). 

she must be some kind of a sucker. or a saint. i was curious to know which it was. turns out, it's a little of both.

what i liked: that bit on page eleven, and...

"i can't do this."

i turned around and fled... but when i got to the building, the odd old man was already there shaking his head. "you really can't outrun me, alexander."

the sheer staggering force of it brought me to my knees, literally, my topcoat pooling around me in the frozen slush. "you can't do this. i have so much left to do."

"technically, that isn't true." yet again he looked apologetic.

my mind raced. "i have a wife. if i die it will kill her."

"i can't disagree with you there. that woman loves you. really loves you. too bad you didn't think of that sooner" (pages 20-21).

i knew i was feeling sorry for myself, and i tried to swallow it back, but i hated that i was losing so much. my home. my husband. my belief in our marriage. the belief that i was loved (page 97).

no matter where we lived, my mother loved giving parties... one night, a woman arrived that i hadn't seen in a while, a woman i had always loved. i took coats and made sure everyone had their drinks, and when i handed her a martini, she looked at me closely and then laughed.

"every time i see you, you're more grown up," she said, and looked around for my mother. "no wonder you don't need a husband, lillian. you've got emily to take care of all the things you don't like to do."

my mother looked at me across the room. i couldn't read her expression. the set of her mouth wasn't quite a frown, but it wasn't a smile either. "yes, she plays the perfect caretaker. but i wonder, is that what you really are, em? or are you hiding what you really want to be?" she paused. "please tell me a daughter of mine wants to be more than a housewife and a hostess" (pages 129-130).

a man who hadn't felt something intense for me would never have held me like he was afraid of what would happen if he let go (page 152).

lillian barlow thought i should learn about currents and tsunamis, but she hadn't thought to teach me how to swim (page 156).

emily had been my biggest victim, not because of horrible things i did, but because i had dared her to love me, and when she did i was unprepared for the enormity of that love, the responsibility -- something that deep down i had known i didn't know how to give back. but i had taken it anyway, handling it without care.

the fact was that i had married her because in her eyes i saw the man i could be. i ended up wanting a divorce because living with her every day was forcing me to see myself for who i really was, a man who didn't have the strength to work hard and persevere and do what it took to be something beyond ordinary (page 348).

what sucked: i'm not a huge fan of the author's writing style and wish she could've told the story in fewer pages. 

having said that: i had read a few pages yesterday, but i basically got the thing finished in a day, which is always a plus in my book. i liked the ending. it's kind of a weird and cheesy story, and i definitely preferred the pages told from emily's point of view. it's nothing stellar -- definitely NOT an utter triumph like j.r. ward said -- but it's cute.

beach music

why i wanted to read it: i was supposed to read it earlier this year (or maybe late last year?) for a book club i'm in but didn't. i needed a book that began with b for erin's book challenge. i felt guilty for not having read it then, and my mom said she and dad had run out of gas listening to this story, they'd been so absorbed. i figured i should give it a shot.

what i liked: she had always prided herself in keeping her madness invisible and at bay; and when she could no longer fend off the voices that grew inside her, their evil set to a chaos in a minor key, her breakdown enfolded upon her, like a tarpaulin pulled across that part of her brain where once there had been light (page 3).

"i guess you think i should hire a marching band to welcome you back," my father, judge johnson hagood mccall, said to me. 

"it's great to see you too, dad." i said.

"don't look at me that way," my father ordered. "i refuse to accept your pity."

"jesus christ," tee whispered.

"say hi to jack, dad," dupree suggested. "it's a question of manners."

"hi, jack," my father said, mugging, his words soft around the edges. "great to have you back, jack. thanks for not calling, jack. for not keeping in touch."

"i tried to call you a couple of times, dad," i said. "but it's hard talking to a man after he's passed out."

"are you implying that i have a drinking problem?" the judge said, rising up to his full length, his head thrown back.

"an outrage," tee said happily.

dallas said, "like saying noah had a problem with the weather, pop."

"drink some coffee," dupree offered. "sober up before you go see mom."

my father looked at me, then sat down on a chair, falling the last several inches. 

"you heard that your mother deserted me for a much younger man, i suppose," he said to me.

dallas said, "the doc's a whole year younger than pop here."

"there's no need for your editorial comments, dallas," the judge said. "i am merely stating the facts. his money blinded her. your mother always had a weakness for material things and ill-gotten pelf."

"pelf?" tee said. "mom likes pelf? i don't even know what that is."

"that's why you're only a public school teacher in the state that ranks last educationally in this great nation," the judge said. "they allow you to teach other idiots, i am told."

"my kids are autistic, dad," said tee.

"aren't you glad dad's drinking again?" dupree asked me, trying to divert our attention away from tee. "i never feel closer to the old boy than when he's going through delirium tremens."

"i'm not drunk," the judge said. "i'm on medication."

"dr. jim beam," dallas said. "still practicing after all these years."

"i have an inner-ear infection," the judge insisted. "the medicine affects my sense of balance."

"that infection must be hell," tee said. "it's been around for thirty years or more."

"all of you were in league with your mother against me," said the judge, closing his eyes.

"got that right," tee said (pages 130-131).

"c'mon, mom," tee yelled by the window. "give 'em hell, girl."

"you're in a hospital," dallas said, "not a sports bar."

"thanks for that timely bulletin, bro," tee said. "and get ready for a full-contact scrimmage. john hardin's tying up his boat down at the dock.

"help us, jesus," dallas said.

"worse than it used to be?" i asked dupree.

"still a bit off," dupree said. "but he's become a little dangerous. he spooks easily."

"now, for the enjoyment of our live audience, ladies and gentlemen, we present madness," dallas said.

"first death," tee said, "then drunkenness."

"calm down, tee," dupree suggested. "don't let him see that you're nervous."

"i'm not nervous," tee said. "i'm scared shitless."

"he hasn't had his shot this month," dupree said. "he's fine after he's had his shot."

there was a tap on the window and john hardin made a motion for tee to unlock it. tee made a motion with his arm that john hardin go around to one of the doorways and john hardin answered him by selecting a brick that formed the border of a flower garden near a memorial fountain (page 133).

dupree said, "let's go together to get your shot,"

john hardin's eyes blazed as he spoke. "i hate you the most, dupree. you're number one on my list. then comes jack. precious jack, the firstborn son who thinks he was born in a manger. then comes dallas, who think he's some kind of genius when he actually doesn't know shit..."

"i'll go with you," tee said to john hardin. "you and i'll go with dupree to get that shot."

"the only cure that'd help me at all is for everyone in this room to get cancer and for my sweet mother to walk out of here with me."

dupree rose and approached his brother cautiously. "please, john hardin. we know how this ends. you'll get disoriented and do something stupid. you won't even mean to do it or know you're doing it. but it's in your hands. get a shot or the cops'll put out a bulletin to pick you up."

"if i needed a fortune-teller, asshole, i'd go order a chinese meal," john hardin screamed... "i'm the nicest of the brothers," john hardin said. "mom said that, not me. i'm just reporting the facts. she said i was her favorite. the pick of the litter" (page 137).

"where's john hardin, dad?" i asked. 

"he's fine. i just told your mother. i saw him at the house this morning. he looked like a million bucks. all he wanted was to borrow a gun."

dupree lowered the binoculars and looked at our father with a baleful gaze... "jesus, i see john hardin. he's holding something. yeah. congratulations, dad. it's your gun."

"you lent a gun to a paranoid schizophrenic?" dallas said.

"no, i lent one to john hardin," the judge said. "the boy told me he wanted to do a little target shooting..."

"hey. waterford," john hardin was screaming. "fuck you. that's what i think of the town and everyone who lives in it. what a rotten little excuse for a town. everyone who grows up here, or is forced to live here even for a small amount of time, becomes a complete, worthless asshole. it's not your fault, waterford. you can't help it that you're rotten to the core. but it's time. you're just not worth a shit and it shows."

"makes you proud to be a mccall," dallas whispered...

"i know what you're saying, dupree," he shouted. "you're telling everyone i need my shot and then i'll settle down... i'm never letting another car cross this goddamn bridge. fuck you, waterford..."

dupree stepped forward, the one who loved john hardin the best and the one john hardin hated the most.

"close the bridge, john hardin," dupree demanded.

"eat a big hairy one, dupree," john hardin answered, using his middle finger to give his words fuller effect. "this town is so shitty it gave my poor mother leukemia... that's my brother dupree," john hardin screamed from his island of steel. "if they had a contest to find the biggest asshole in the world, i guarantee he'd be a finalist..."

"i never understood why you lived in europe," dallas said, "till this very moment."

"lots of rentals," i said. 

"what a loser," dupree screamed back at john hardin. "you've been a loser and a phony since the day you were born. mama just told me that. she's out of her coma."

"mama's out of her coma?" john hardin said. "you're lying. fuck you, dupree mccall." john hardin's voice was as poignant as a train whistle now. "i won't close this bridge until every one shouts 'fuck you, dupree mcall.'"

"organize the cheer, brothers," dupree said. "he means it. and if the swat team gets here, they'll kill our brother. they don't play."

we ran down a line of cars and enlisted volunteers from the crowd to pass the word from driver to driver... 

the town chanted, "fuck you, dupree mccall..."

"now close the bridge," dupree shouted. "before i come over there and whip your ass.

"you gonna pole-vault, asshole?" john hardin shouted.

"there are ladies present on the bridge," dallas said, changing tactics.

"i apologize to all the ladies i might've offended," john hardin said, and there was true contrition in his voice. "but my mother has leukemia and i'm really not myself today."

"mama's out of the coma," dupree shouted again. "she wants to talk to you. she won't see the rest of us until she talks to you. close the bridge."

"i will under one condition," john hardin said... "i want all of my brothers to get stark, buck naked and jump into the river..."

"we get naked," dupree said, "then you throw the gun in the water. we jump in the water. you close the bridge. deal?"

john hardin thought a moment, then said. "deal."

dupree stepped out of his underwear, followed by tee, then me, and finally a very reluctant and grumbling dallas.

john hardin grinned happily as he savoured the sight of us, his naked and humiliated brothers. "all of you've got little dicks" (pages 244-247).

i listened to this one on audio, too (because it's seven hundred sixty-eight pages, and you readers of picky should know how i loathe long books). there were SO, SO many pages of quotes i loved that i could share with yall. these were the snippets i wanted to go back and find.

what sucked: it's SEVEN HUNDRED SIXTY EIGHT pages. there were a couple of instances of backstory that i wished weren't so lengthy.

having said all that: i LOVED this one. the writing's beautiful. i love the family dynamic. i am in awe of conroy's ability to weave tragedy with comedy. it's REALLY good stuff. yall should read it.

wicked: the life and times of the wicked witch of the west

why i wanted to read it: because i figured, given the novel's and play's popularity, i should. because i needed something with a cardinal direction in the title for erin's book challenge.

what i liked: [fiyero] "why should i keep myself so safe?" he asked her, but he was almost asking himself. what is there in my life worth preserving? with a good wife back there in the mountains, serviceable as an old spoon, dry in the heart from having been scared of marriage since she was six? with three children so shy of their father, the prince of the arjikis, that they will hardly come near him? with a careworn clan moving here, moving there, going through the same disputes, herding the same herds, praying the same prayers, as they have done for five hundred years? and me, with a shallow and undirected mind, no artfulness in word or habit, no especial kindness toward the world? what is there that makes my life worth preserving?

"i love you," said elphaba. [aka, the wicked witch of the west]

"so that's that then, and that's it," he answered her, and himself. "and i love you. so i promise to be careful" (page 214).

there were probably a couple of other things, but i listened to this one on audio, and that was the only passage i felt like hunting through the text to find.

what sucked: my biggest complaint is that maguire spends so much time talking about trivial stuff and so little time digging into details that have some relevance to the plot. maybe if i'd read the four hundred six pages, i would've been able to skim the small shit and spend more time on the more meaningful things, but then, i wasn't that interested in this story, which is why i listened to it instead. also, it's long.

having said that: i love the idea for this story. i liked seeing that elphaba could love and be loved. but i can't reconcile the wickedness i saw in her character in film the wizard of oz with the so-called wickedness of her character in this story. she's mean, sure -- angry, resentful, bitter, hostile. but i can't call her wicked, so i kind of feel like maguire dropped the ball on this one -- that he didn't make her hateful enough. i have compassion for her, in the end. and i didn't want to.

north of happy

why i wanted to read it: because i needed a book with a cardinal direction in the title, and this one sounded interesting.

what i liked:  i've never acted impulsively in my life. felix got all those genes. it feels like i'm borrowing his disobedience, like i'm stealing something, acting unlike myself. but that doesn't keep me from putting a knee on the suitcase to force it closed...

i look at my reflection in the mirror and can almost see the back wall. all my edges are blurred... i think: i can't do this anymore. i think: i'm barely even here. i say: "i have to go, dad." 

the words come out like a whimper. so, i'm not stealing all of felix's personality traits, then. felix never whimpered... for a wild moment i consider confessing, telling them about felix, how i still see him but i feel like i'm the one who's gone. his death made ghosts of both of us and i just want it to stop (pages 27-29).

i remember going on trips to the store with mom and felix when i was twelve. felix would insist on pushing the cart, running and taking his feet off the ground, letting the cart carry him down the aisles. i'd wander behind, dragging my feet to prolong the trip. i didn't know a thing about cooking back then, but i was drawn to the ingredients in a way i didn't understand yet (page 39).

since the night of the perfect taco, i haven't really been able to make anyone laugh. dad even pointed it out a few times. "you used to be funny," he said once, as if he couldn't think of any possible reason why i may have lost my sense of humor (page 105).

on my tenth day of training with chef, i'm making another omelet. i rushed the first one and it fell apart before i could plate it, making chef snort derisively and put me back on onions for the day. the second one looked good to me, but chef stopped at the first bite, reached for the nearby ramekin of salt and dumped it over my head. i'd been so focused on the cooking time that i forgot to season.

this one, though, looks perfect. not a tinge of brown, perfectly shaped and fluffy. i garnish it with a sprig of parsley on top...

now chef is examining the omelet, lifting it up with her fork to inspect the bottom. she lets it drop with a sneer, and pushes the plate back toward me. her eyebrow's raised. "you expect me to eat that? that's not how you make an omelet." then she grabs the parsley sprig and pops it into her mouth. "don't waste a garnish on shitty food" (pages 191-192).

"a prep garde manger position is opening up. i thought a little test for you would be fun. you've been working hard, both with me in the mornings and doing what you're paid to do. your staff meals are good, but those don't really mean shit. it's a little too soon, but let's see what else you can do."

my heart quickens.

"i need a special for the day." she crosses her arms in front of her chest and nods to the clipboard. "you get to come up with one of them. if i like it enough, maybe i'll put it on the menu." i want to run and hug her. all those early mornings, those double shifts made harder by the extra work -- this is what they were for. elias was right. "and," chef adds, "i'll promote you to the line... i want to see a detailed recipe wth exact quantities of every ingredient you'll use per portion. make sure we've got enough for at least the day. i don't want to eighty-six it before we're even setting up for dinner."

"yes, chef. thank you, chef."

she nods and heads toward the door.

"um, chef?" i ask, remembering all of chef's outbursts, thinking there's gotta be some sort of catch to this. "what if you don't like it?"

"then i don't make it and you don't get the job, genius," she says, not slowing down. "and i don't let you cook again for a year. you have until the prep cook shows up" (pages 249-250).

i marked a few more pages, but they're too close to the end for me to comfortably share.

what sucked: it's a bit predictable, starts slow and the end's a little too pat for my taste.

having said that: i really liked the characters and conflict. it's a good story.

sweet jesus, mary and joseph!

i finished the challenge!!!

i did not think i would do it this time because...

GONE WITH THE WIND

and

THE BOOK THIEF

so that's about

SEVENTEEN HUNDRED PAGES

just those two alone.

but i did it. YEE!!!!!

refuge for masterminds

why i wanted to read it: because it's the last of the school for unusual girls trilogy by kathleen baldwin. i wanted to know how the story ends.

what i liked: "save your lectures, lady jane... no one will think you are a tavern wench... one look at you puts that idea to rest once and for all. there is nothing about you nearly so comfortable or amiable as a tavern wench" (page 25).

upon returning to the cove, i stand awaiting the next bit of the prototype to be ferried to the barn. alexander stops work and peers at me. "you are near dead on your feet, lady jane. take yourself off to bed. it won't do to have you collapsing in a heap." his voice echoes weirdly in the cove, and just when i think he is expressing genuine concern, he goes and spoils it all. "we've too much to do to be carrying you up the hill, as well."

"that is no hill," i argue.

"exactly," he mutters (page 67).

still stunned, i stand, unable to move, softened into a useless pudding by the merest touch of his lips to mine. at the same time, his cryptic remark bewilders me. i try to puzzle it out. does he mean kissing me would've been an ordeal? surely not. he hadn't come toward my mouth like a man about to suffer pain for the cause. is it possible he meant our kiss would devastate him more than it did me? why would he think such a thing? perhaps it saddens him that this first kiss will also be our last, our only kiss. i shake my head, unable to fathom a sentiment like that coming from him, the glib mr. sinclair -- i think not. not him. more than likely, it was another of his meaningless jests.

i am vexed now. quite vexed...

alexander turns me around, so i am facing the right direction on the path, and with a steadying hand he guides me upward. it is completely unnecessary. i am quite capable of stomping my way to the summit on my own (page 73).

"all right, lady jane, what are you up to?" he stares down his nose at me... "i see cogs turning in that dangerous little head of yours."

dangerous. not pretty. of all the things he could've called my head, lovely, or even clever, he chooses dangerous. what's worse, i am completely innocent of plotting at the moment. i was merely enjoying looking at him.

"i'm not up to anything." i cross my arms. "why should i be?"

"because you always are." he says this with a modicum of respect, as if it is not entirely an insult, even though it is. "craftier than a mongoose chasing a cobra, you are. i never know what to expect."

a mongoose?

suddenly, i want to punch him. my fists are balled and i have half a mind to actually do the deed, except that would not be ladylike, and fortunately for him captain grey and miss stranje are approaching... mongoose, indeed....

"i'm surprised you would trust a mongoose."

"with my life, your majesty." he adds a jaunty smile. but his flippant remark, with my life, jolts me back to the cold cruel fact that his life may indeed rely on whether or not i can catch the cobra.

my fists uncurl (pages 180-181).

meanwhile, georgiana and lord wyatt, tess and lord ravencross, and i, are doing our utmost to teach mr. sinclair, the most obstinate man on earth, steps to a simple country dance...

"that is not it at all." i stop and gesture vehemently at mr. sinclair's long lanky legs. "your knees must rise higher. like this."

"what do you mean?" he waves his hands at my gown. "i can't see a thing. your skirts are in the way."

i raise them, so he can see how to do a proper twirl and hop. 

he shakes his head. "still can't see it. do it again."

i repeat the step, but this time lord wyatt sputters into a guffaw. i whirl around and see alexander, the scoundrel, grinning and indicating i should lift my skirts even higher.

"wretch." i drop my skirts. "you've seen more than enough" (pages 183-184).

what sucked: it lagged at times. that's really all i've got.

having said that: it's alright. i liked jane and alexander. i wish baldwin had included more interaction between the two of them. it's better than the second but not as good as the first. i think it would've been better if baldwin had made it one book instead of three. overall, it's an interesting trilogy, though, and i did enjoy it.

gone with the wind

why i wanted to read it: it's my mother's favorite book.

what i liked: there's a lot, yall. a LOT. it would take me days to type up all the things, so i'll just share a few specifics.

"that's no way to handle men, my dear. you are forgetting your early training."

"i don't need you to tell me how to behave," she said and wearily put on her bonnet. she wondered how he could jest so blithely with a rope around his neck and her pitiful circumstances before him. she did not even notice that his hands were jammed in his pockets in hard fists as if he were straining against his own impotence. 

"cheer up," he said, as she tied her bonnet strings. "you can come to my hanging and it will make you feel lots better. it'll even up all your old scores with me -- even this one. and i'll mention you in my will."

"thank you, but they may not hang you till it's too late to pay the taxes," she said with a sudden malice that matched his own, and she meant it (page 587).

"so all i can say is, keep that pistol of yours handy -- and when i'm in town, i'll try to be on hand to drive you."

"rhett, do you really -- is it to protect me that you --"

"yes, my dear, it is my much advertised chivalry that makes me protect you." the mocking light began to dance in his black eyes and all signs of earnestness fled from his face. "and why? because of my deep love for you, mrs. kennedy. yes, i have silently hungered and thirsted for you and worshiped you from afar; but being an honorable man, like mr. ashley wilkes, i have concealed it from you. you are, alas, frank's wife and honor has forbidden my telling this to you. but even as mr. wilkes' honor cracks occasionally, so mine is cracking now and i reveal my secret passion and my --"

"oh, for god's sake, hush!" interrupted scarlett, annoyed as usual... "what was the other thing you wanted to tell me?"

"what! you change the subject when i am baring a loving but lacerated heart?" (page 684).

"really, scarlett, i can't go all my life, waiting to catch you between husbands" (page 832).

"did you ever in your novel reading come across the old situation of the disinterested wife falling in love with her own husband?"

"you know i don't read novels," she said and, trying to equal his jesting mood, went on: "besides, you once said it was the height of bad form for husbands and wives to love each other."

"i once said too god damn many things" (page 837).

strange, what a pang it had been even in her pain, to know that she would not have this child. stranger still that it should have been the first child she really wanted...

rage had been swallowed up in pain and she wanted rhett. but he was not there and she could not bring herself to ask for him. 

her last memory of him was how he looked as he picked her up in the dark hall at the bottom of the steps, his face white and wiped clean of all save hideous fear, his voice hoarsely calling for mammy...

whenever scarlett opened her eyes, she said, "melly?" and the voice answered. and usually she started to whisper: "rhett -- i want rhett" and remembered as if from a dream that rhett didn't want her... she wanted him and he didn't want her.

once she said "melly?" and mammy's voice said: "s'me, chile," and put a cold rag on her head and she cried fretfully: "melly -- melanie" over and over but for a long time melanie did not come. for melanie was sitting on the edge of rhett's bed and rhett, drunk and sobbing, was sprawled on the floor, crying, his head in her lap...

"i've killed scarlett, i've killed her. you don't understand. she didn't want this baby and --"

"you must hush! you are beside yourself! not want a baby? why every woman wants --"

"no! no! you want babies. but she doesn't. not my babies... i wanted to hurt her -- because she had hurt me. i wanted to -- and i did -- but she didn't want me. she's never wanted me (pages 962-965).

behind that door, melanie was going and, with her, the strength upon which she had relied unknowingly for so many years. why, oh, why, had she not realized before this how much she loved and needed melanie? but who would have thought of small plain melanie as a tower of strength? melanie who was shy to tears before strangers... scarlett felt her courage and self-confidence ooze from her as she realized that the sword which had flashed between her and the world was sheathed forever (page 1012).

"you are tired," he said, still watching her. "you'd better go to bed."

"but i must tell you!"

"scarlett," he said heavily," i don't want to hear -- anything."

"but you don't know what i'm going to say!"

"my pet, it's written plainly on your face. something, someone has made you realize that the unfortunate mr. wilkes is too large a mouthful of dead sea fruit for even you to chew. and that same something has suddenly set my charms before you in a new and attractive light," he sighed slightly. "and it's no use to talk about it" (page 1027).

what sucked: that it's more than ONE. THOUSAND. PAGES. holy CHRIST. mitchell must have been BORED OUT OF MIND to write that much. also, i question whether the editor was in his or her right mind prior to press, letting that book fly with that many pages. the hardcover's as heavy as a doorstop. it's more a history text book than a novel. at least until you get to the eight hundredth page or so.

i borrowed the audio book from the library. it's TWO BOXES of cds. there are FORTY-ONE discs.

having said that: i don't think i've ever bitched at a character more than i did at scarlett while reading this. jesus, she's a STUPID girl. i cried listening to this one, though, and in the handful of times i've seen the movie, i've never cried for her or for rhett. and there's so much sorrow in scarlett's heart in the last of this thing that the film just can't capture. also, ain't no way in hell scarlett gets rhett back. this is one hell of a tragedy. mitchell sure knew how to pile on the damage.

the book thief

why i wanted to read it: because erin sent it to me years ago, and i finally decided to tackle it for her latest book challenge in the nonhuman character category.

what i liked: first the colors. then the humans. that's usually how i see things. or at least, how i try... i most definitely can be cheerful. i can be amiable. agreeable. affable. and that's only the a's. just don't ask me to be nice. nice has nothing to do with me (page 3). (that's a damned fine first page, by the way. there's a prologue... it doesn't count.)

the question is what colour will everything be at the moment i come for you? what will the sky be saying (page 4).

people observe the colours of the day only at its beginnings and ends... a single hour can consist of thousands of colours... in my line of work, i make it a point to notice them (page 5).

she was the book thief without the words.

trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out, like the rain (page 85).

even papa's music was the colour of darkness.

the strange thing was she was vaguely comforted by that thought, rather than distressed by it.

the dark, the light.

what was the difference?

nightmares had reinforced themselves in each... (page 108).

it reminded her of an unpopular child, forlorn and bewildered, powerless to alter its fate. no-one liked it. head down. hands in pockets. forever. amen (page 119).

as he looked uncomfortably at the human shape before him, the young man's voice was scraped out and handed across the dark like it was all that was remained of him (page 187).

the frozen motives of rudy steiner

1. after months of failure, this moment was his only chance to revel in some victory.
2. such a position of selflessness was a good place to ask liesel for the usual favor. how could she possibly turn him down?

'how about a kiss, saumensch?'

he stood waist-deep in the water for a few moments longer before climbing out and handing her the book. his pants clung to him, and he did not stop walking. in truth, i think he was afraid. rudy steiner was afraid of the book thief's kiss. he must have longed for it so much. he must have loved her so incredibly hard. so hard that he would never ask for her lips again, and would go to his grave without them (page 326).

there are skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and there are soft, coal-coloured clouds, beating, like black hearts.

and then.

there is death.

making his way through all of it.

on the surface: unflappable, unwavering.

below: unnerved, untied, and undone (page 331).

while liesel sat in the dark, rudy tried on the suit behind one of the curtains. there was a small circle of light and the shadow dressing itself.

when he returned, he held out the lantern for liesel to see. freed from the curtain, the light was like a pillar, shining onto the refined suit. it also lit up the dirty shirt beneath, and rudy's battered shoes. 

'well?' he asked.

liesel continued the examination. she moved around him and shrugged. 'not bad.'

'not bad! i look better than just not bad.'

'the shoes let you down. and your face' (page 485).

she had seen her brother die with one eye open, one still in a dream... she had seen a jewish man who had twice given her the most beautiful pages of her life marched to a concentration camp.

those images were the world, and it stewed in her as she sat with the lovely books and their manicured titles. it brewed in her as she eyed the pages full to the brims of their bellies with paragraphs and words.

you bastards, she thought. you lovely bastards.

don't make me happy. please, don't fill me up and let me think that something good can come from any of this. look at my bruises... i don't want to hope for anything anymore. i don't want to pray that max is alive and safe. or alex steiner.

because the world does not deserve them (page 353).

what sucked: that it's nearly SIX. HUNDRED. PAGES.

having said that: it's good. it made me cry, and it's rare that a book has that kind of power for me. listen to this one, though, rather than read it. i got about two hundred pages in before giving up and borrowing the audio book from the library. the guy who reads it does a pretty good job.

the beginning of everything

why i wanted to read it: because i liked the title and the cover and the first few pages grabbed my attention. but it, like so many books, made it home and then was untouched for quite some time. i picked it up again for the book beginning with b category in erin's book challenge.

what i liked: so who was i in the aftermath of my personal tragedy? at first, i was a lousy sport when it came to the chipper attitudes of the pediatrics nurses. and then i was a stranger in my own home, a temporary occupant of the downstairs guest room. an invalid, if you will, which is probably the most horrific word i've ever heard to describe someone who is supposed to be recuperating. in the context of a mathematical proof, if something is considered "invalid", it has been demonstrated through irrefutable logic not to exist (page 13).

we wound up debating the merits of free market economics, which definitely wasn't my strong suit, and i argued pro again. i thought i'd managed to present the argument okay, but the moment that freshman adjusted his belt, straightened his tie, and shot me a look like he expected me to suck it, i knew i was done for. he filleted me. 

it was so frustrating, knowing that, if we were on a tennis court, i could've killed him with my backhand, slicing it to land short and watching him run like hell. but this was debate, and my superpowers were nonexistent. i almost wished he'd debated cassidy in her ridiculous harry potter costume, so she could've wiped the smirk off his muggle-face (pages 146-147).

"the world tends toward chaos, you know," cassidy said. "i'm just helping it along. you could too. just write down a made-up name, or even a fictional character..."

"fictional people?" i teased... "i think i'll stick with reality," i said, handing cassidy back her phone... "imaginary prisoners are still prisoners" (pages 175-176).

she'd put on a pair of boots with big heels, and the extra height made holding hands feel different, as though she was closer, and easier to reach (page 194).

"just once i want someone to be afraid of losing me," phoebe said (page 221).

"i -- just -- the whole time, it's been someone else?" i said numbly.

she cocked her head slightly, her hand on her hip, as though it pained her to have to explain it to me.

"how could it have been you? my god, ezra, look at yourself. you're a washed-up prom king who lost his virginity to some cheerleader in a hot tub. you take me out for burgers and friday-night movies at the multiplex. you're everything i make fun of about small hick towns like this one, and you're still going to be here in twenty years, coaching the high-school tennis team so you can relive your glory days."

back when they'd reset the broken bone in my wrist, i'd woken up on the operating table. it was just for a moment, before the doctors upped the anesthesia, but in those seconds when the lights were bright and hot and the surgeons were bent over me with my blood dripping from their scalpels, it'd felt as though i'd woken into a nightmare.

hearing cassidy say those things was worse. because i hadn't been broken when i left my house an hour earlier, with a wrist corsage of white roses still cold from the refrigerator, but i was certainly broken now.

i stared at her, horrified. her chin jutted stubbornly and her eyes were a hurricane, and there was nowhere for me to seek cover

i turned and walked away.

"ezra!" she called desperately, as thought i was the one who was being unreasonable.

i paused, considering it, but what more was there to say? and then i continued my funeral march toward the parking lot.

the death of a relationship. at least i was dressed for the wake (pages 244-245).

"remember my twelfth birthday... how all of the sudden, we weren't friends anymore... you're pushing me away, exactly like you did in seventh grade... i was the fat kid who drew comic books. i was going to be bullied no matter what. you act like that day at disneyland was my big tragedy, but you're the one who lost your best friend" (pages 269-270).

what sucked: the writing is mediocre, at best. most of the time, it was disheartening for me to read this book because i felt my own writing was equal to this, and i want to do better and am not sure i can... which made me feel like shit, because it's really not good writing. too much telling, bad dialogue, poor character development... it doesn't read quickly enough for my liking. it's fairly predictable. there's not much more heart than what's in these passages here. he break-up scene is barely a page. that should be gut-wrenching, and surely what's there has some power, but... the author always seems to fall a little short. not much heart, and much less chemistry.

having said that: the bones of the story are good. there's some amazing conflict here, and the author does do well in creating a believable world in which these characters live. although i'm not fond of the writing style, i cared enough about ezra's plight to see it through to the end.

all the bright places

why i wanted to read it: this is one of those that i always saw on display at barnes and noble for the longest time, like the fault in our stars, but would pick up and put down again and again. on a visit to the lovely, independent blue willow bookshop in west houston many, many months ago ago, i purchased an autograph copy, but it sat in my car for weeks and weeks. it finally made it into the house, only to be stashed on the bookshelves. one of the categories for erin's book challenge is mental illness in fiction, and it suits. god, does it suit.

what i liked: theodore finch. "what in the hell were you doing in the bell tower?"

the thing i like about embryo is that not only is he predictable, he gets to the point. i've known him since sophomore year.

"i wanted to see the view."

"were you planning to jump off?"

"not on pizza day. never on pizza day, which is one of the better days of the week." i should mention that i am a brilliant deflector. so brilliant that i could get a full scholarship to college and major in it, except why bother? i've already mastered the art (page 13).

it's my experience that people are a lot more sympathetic if they can see you hurting, and for the millionth time in my life i wish for measles or smallpox or some other recognizable disease just to make it simple for me and also for them. anything would be better than the truth: i shut down again. i went blank. one minute i was spinning, and the next minute my mind was dragging itself around in a circle, like an old, arthritic dog trying to lie down. and then i just turned off and went to sleep, but not sleep in the way you do every night. think a long, dark sleep where you don't dream at all (pages 15-16).

apparently, i'm tragic and dangerous (page 26).

someone has come in late and dropped a book and then, in picking up the book, has upset all her other books so that everything has gone tumbling. this is followed by laughter because we're in high school... and so, because i'm used to it and because this violet girl is about three dropped pencils away from crying, i knock one of my own books onto the floor. all eyes shift to me. i bend to pick it up and purposely send others flying -- boomeranging into walls, windows, heads -- and just for good measure, i tilt my chair over so i go crashing. this is followed by snickers and applause and a "freak" or two, and mr. black wheezing. "if you're done... theodore... i'd like to continue."

i right myself, right the chair, take a bow, collect my books, bow again, settle in, and smile at violet, who is looking at me... (page 29).

outside of class, gabe romero blocks my way. amanda monk waits just behind, hip jutted out, Joe wyatt and ryan cross on either side of her. good, easygoing, decent, nice-guy ryan, athlete, a-student, vice president of the class. the worst thing about him is that since kindergarten he's known exactly who he is...

"pick 'em up, bitch." roamer walks past me, knocking me in the chest -- hard -- with his shoulder. i want to slam his head into a locker and then reach down his throat and pull his heart out through his mouth, because the thing about being awake is that everything in you is alive and aching and making up for lost time.

but instead i count all the way to sixty, a stupid smile plastered on my stupid face. i will not get detention. i will not get expelled. i will be good. i will be quiet. i will be still...

i've made a promise to myself that this year will be different (pages 32-33). 

worthless. stupid. these are the words i grew up hearing. they're the words i try to outrun, because if i let them in, they might stay there and grow up and fill me in, until the only thing left of me is worthless stupid worthless stupid worthless stupid freak (page 63).

i sign onto facebook, and over on violet's page someone from school has posted about her being a hero for saving me. there are 146 comments and 289 likes, and while i'd like to think there are this many people grateful that i'm still alive, i know better. i go to my page, which is empty except for violet's friend picture (pages 75).

roamer mumbles. "maybe you should go back up there and try again."

"and miss the opportunity to see indiana? no thanks." their eyes bore into me as i look at violet. "let's go."

"right now?"

"no time like the present, and all that. you of all people should know we're only guaranteed right now."

roamer says, "hey asshole, why don't you ask her boyfriend?"

i say to roamer, "because i'm not interested in ryan. i'm interested in violet" (page 87).

mom says, "decca, tell me what you learned today."

before she can answer, i say, "actually, i'd like to go first... i learned that there is good in the world, if you look hard enough for it. i learned that not everyone is disappointing, including me... (page 104).

water is peaceful. i am at rest... in march of 1941, after three serious breakdowns, virginia woolf wrote a note to her husband... "i feel certain that i am going mad again. i feel we can't go through another of those terrible times... so i am doing what seems the best thing to do... you have been in every way all that anyone could be... if anybody could have saved me it would have been you" (page 106).

... a voice in me says, you're no hero. you're a coward. you only saved them from yourself (page 161).

i can go downstairs right now and let my mom know how i'm feeling -- if she's even home -- but she'll tell me to help myself to the advil in her purse and that i need to relax and stop getting myself worked up, because in this house there's no such thing as being sick unless you can measure it with a thermometer under the tongue...

i don't want to hear about the cardinal again. because the thing of it is, that cardinal was dead either way, whether he came inside or not. maybe he knew it, and maybe that's why he decided to crash into the glass a little harder than normal that day. he would have died in here, only slower, because that's what happens when you're a finch. the marriage dies. the love dies. the people fade away. (pages 185-186).

in gym, charlie donahue and i stand on the baseball field, way beyond third base... he crosses his arms and frowns at me. "is it true you almost drowned roamer?"

"something like that."

"always finish what you start, man" (page 204).

"what are you most afraid of?"

i think, i'm most afraid of just be careful. i'm most afraid of the long drop. i'm most afraid of asleep and impending weightless doom. i'm most afraid of me.

"i'm not." i take her hand, and together we leap through the air. and in that moment there's nothing i fear except losing hold of her hand (page 221).

labels like "bipolar" say, this is why you are the way you are. this is who you are. they explain people away as illnesses (page 272).

a string of thoughts run through my head like a song i can't get rid of, over and over in the same order: i am broken. i am a fraud. i am impossible to love. it's only a matter of time until violet figures it out. you warned her. what does she want from you? you told her how it was. 

bipolar disorder, my mind says, labeling itself. bipolar, bipolar, bipolar.

and then it starts all over again: i am broken. i am a fraud. i am impossible to love... (pages 277-278).

i am tired. i am avoiding seeing violet. it's exhausting trying to even myself out and be careful around her, so careful, like i'm picking my way through a minefield, enemy soldiers on every side. must not let her see. i've told her i've come down with some sort of bug and don't want to get her sick (page 281).

all i know is what i wonder: which of my feelings are real? which of the mes is me? there is only one me i've ever really liked, and he was good and awake as long as he could be (page 314).

and violet markey.

i love the world that is my room. it's nicer in here than out there, because in here i'm whatever i want to be. i am a brilliant writer. i can write fifty pages a day and i never run out of words. i am an accepted future student of the nyu creative writing program. i am the creator of a popular web magazine -- not the one i did with eleanor, but a new one. i am fearless. i am free. i am safe (page 52).

i look in the direction brenda pointed and there he is. theodore finch leans against an suv, hands in his pockets, like he has all the time in the world and he expects me. i think of the virginia woolf lines, the ones from the waves: "pale, with dark hair, the one who is coming is melancholy, romantic. and i am arch and fluent and capricious for his melancholy, he is romantic. he is here" (page 90).

he sits cross-legged, wild hair bent over one of the books, and immediately it's as if he's gone away and is somewhere else.

i say, "i'm still made at you about getting me in detention." i expect some fast reply, something flirty and flip, but instead he doesn't look up, just reaches for my hand and keeps reading. i can feel the apology in his fingers... (page 153).

the room has been stripped bare, down to the sheets on the bed. it looks like a vacant blue hospital room, waiting to be made up for the next patient (page 290).

just two lines across, each word on a separate piece of paper. the first line reads: long, last, nothing, time, there, make, was, to, a, him.

the second: waters, thee, go, to, it, suits, if, the, thee.

i reach for the word "nothing". i sit cross-legged and hunched over, thinking about the words. i know i've heard them before, though not in this order.

i take the words from line one off the wall and start moving them around (page 332).

what sucked: not a damned thing.

having said that: read it. please, please read it. i know i shared a lot from this one. i promise you, there's so much more good than i've included here.

the help

why i wanted to read it: because erin sent it to me years ago... and because one of the categories for her challenge was a book that had a yellow cover.

what i liked: she rubs the cream in my hair with both hands. i can practically feel the hope in her fingers (page 128).

"minny, i don't care if celia never lifts another finger for the rest of her life... i don't care if she can cook. i just want her here --" he shrugs. "with me" (page 162).

i turn out all the lamps, the television, every electricity sucker downstairs save the refrigerator. i stand in front of the window and unbutton my blouse. carefully i turn the dial to three. because i long to feel nothing. i want to be frozen inside. i want the icy cold to blow directly on my heart.

the power blows out in about three seconds (page 325).

i sit down at my typewriter.

but i cannot type. i stare at the tiny gray squares of the back porch screen. i stare so hard, i slip through them. i feel something inside me crack open. i am vaporous. i am crazy. i am deaf to that stupid, silent phone. deaf to mother's retching in the house. her voice through the window. "i'm fine, carlton, it's passed." i hear it all, and yet i hear nothing. just a high buzzing in my ears (page 331).

"going from hilly to celia must've been quite the change, johnny."

johnny shakes his head. "like living in antarctica all my life and one day moving to hawaii" (page 386).

what sucked: nothing really. i'd seen the movie ages ago, so i'm more partial to certain scenes in the film than i am to their respective parts in the book, but... it's a pretty solid story.

having said that: i like all the characters, save for hilly and elizabeth. but even they are well-developed. it's rare that an author can evoke such animosity for a character in me, and yet... i can admire the author her ability to have fashioned these women. hilly is a vile human being for all her hate and elizabeth is equally so for all her cowardice. i listened to it on audio, which is why i don't have as many snippets to share with you of the things i liked, and every time the disc ended (i borrowed it from the library, yall), i was both annoyed by the interruption and sad because the story had stopped. also, if you do the audio, octavia spencer reads minny's parts, and the gal who reads the secret life of bees reads skeeter's. it's a damned fine story. i'm glad to have read it.

caraval

why i wanted to read it: because the cover appealed to me, the letters at the beginning intrigued me, and the story sounded like it might be cool. and for erin's book challenge, it meets the published in 'seventeen category. but mostly it's because i dig the title.

what i liked: scarlett's feelings came in colors even brighter than usual. the urgent red of burning coals. the eager green of new grass buds. the frenzied yellow of a flapping bird's feathers (page 12).

"lovely seeing you, scarlett." julian smiled, as cool and seductive as a slice of shade in the hot season.

scarlett knew the polite response would be something along the lines of "good to see you, too." but all she could think about were his hands, still coiled around tella's periwinkle skirts, playing with the tassels on her bustle, as if she were a parcel he couldn't wait to unwrap.

julian had only been on the isle of trisda about a month. when he'd swaggered off his ship, tall and handsome, with golden-brown skin, he'd drawn almost every woman's eye. even scarlett's head had turned briefly, but she'd known better than to look any longer (page 13).

"i think you've forgotten how to live, and your sister is trying to remind you," julian went on. "but if all you want is safety, i'll take you back" (page 49).

inside the house, violin music, richer than the darkest chocolate, started playing. it seeped outside and whispered to scarlett as julian's smile turned seductive, all shameless curves and immoral promises. an invitation to places that proper young ladies didn't think about, let alone visit. scarlett didn't want to imagine what sorts of things this smile had convinced other girls to do (page 87).

scarlett broke off as a man in cheap velveteen pants and a brown bowler hat kicked a piece of stained glass. something glittery and red sparkled beneath it.

"no! you can't take those." scarlett lunged toward the man, but the moment he saw her interest, his own ignited into something stronger. he snatched the precious earrings from the floor and bolted to the door. 

she ran after him, but he was quick and her arms were burdened. she was only halfway down the hall when he made it to the rickety stairs.

"here, let me hold those." the pregnant girl was beside her in the hall. "i'll be right here when you get back," she promised. 

scarlett didn't want to let go of what she'd gathered, but she really couldn't lose those earrings. dropping her things in the girl's open arms, scarlett clutched the bottom of her snowy skirt and tried to catch up with the man... outside, the world was nightfall and daybreak all at once... the man had disappeared.

it shouldn't have mattered. they were only earrings. but they weren't only earrings. they were scarlets.

scarlet stones for scarlett, her mother had said. a final present before she had left... they were a piece of her mother, and a reminder that governor dragna had once been a different man (pages 126-127).

what sucked: sometimes the writing's really cheesy. it aims for sweet and strives to be chock full of imagery and to further the sense of wonder the story has, but sometimes it's more syrupy and saccharine than sweet.

having said that: i dig the story. it's fantastical and clever and complex... made me think a little bit of the theatrics and exploits of logan and his friends in gilmore girls. i like scarlett and julian a lot. so much so that i'll read this again. the ending's pretty badass, though maybe there's some predictability to it. it's four hundred pages, and usually i cringe when authors take that long to tell a story, but i didn't mind it here. i'd like more of this, please.