The Phi Beta Kappa Book Club on facebook is having a contest for the best haiku written about a book. (More info here: http://www.pbk.org/home/FocusNews.aspx?id=796)
Here are the ones I entered -- please share what all of you come up with! :)
Atonement for her,
Their secret, her assumption,
She makes the ending
Our first impression
In The Sound and the Fury --
Time flows to and fro
Louisa put some
Of herself, some ideals in
Her Little Women
Floating on the sea,
So many faces, stories,
Mansfield's Ship of Fools
Many voices merge
Telling of their Africa
Poisonwood Bible
As I Lay Dying --
Taking the casket across
the land, together.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
The Art of Reading
When the school year ended, my good friend and awesome colleague Paul Herring recommended I read Carlos Ruiz Zafron's The Shadow of the Wind, a book Paul bought in England. I'm such a creature of habit when it comes to reading, reading every book by the authors I love and staying close to the genres that pull me in most, I had no idea if I'd enjoy it. But I couldn't put the book down -- I absolutely loved it.
The novel is set in Barcelona (which gave vivid mental images of the sites I saw there five years ago) and follows bookstore owner Daniel's search for information about his favorite author, Julian Carax. Daniel's passion for Carax's book The Shadow of the Wind pulls him into a strange search for more information about the author and a dangerous cat and mouse game with a man threatening Daniel and his father. As the pages fly by and Daniel pulls more people into his search, though, it's difficult to pinpoint who is the cat and who is the mouse. The novel is a murder mystery, multiple love stories, insight into Spain's history of war and national turmoil, a coming of age story. It's about love and loneliness and the gray space between and how, sometimes, they overlap.
Daniel tells his love, Bea, early on in the story about his pursuits regarding Carax. He puts it best, saying the story is about "accursed books, about the man who wrote them, about a character who broke out of the pages of a novel so that he could burn it, about a betrayal and a lost friendship. It's a story of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind" (p. 182).
The novel is also about our connection with literature, how it pulls us in and lets us live somewhere else, with someone else through the last page. As he wraps up the multidimensional plot, Zafron says through Bea that "the art of reading is...an intimate ritual, that a book is a mirror that offers us only what we already carry inside us, that when we read, we do it with all our heart and mind" (p. 502). Zafron puts it perfectly; there is no way to elaborate more on the truth of reading.
The novel is set in Barcelona (which gave vivid mental images of the sites I saw there five years ago) and follows bookstore owner Daniel's search for information about his favorite author, Julian Carax. Daniel's passion for Carax's book The Shadow of the Wind pulls him into a strange search for more information about the author and a dangerous cat and mouse game with a man threatening Daniel and his father. As the pages fly by and Daniel pulls more people into his search, though, it's difficult to pinpoint who is the cat and who is the mouse. The novel is a murder mystery, multiple love stories, insight into Spain's history of war and national turmoil, a coming of age story. It's about love and loneliness and the gray space between and how, sometimes, they overlap.
Daniel tells his love, Bea, early on in the story about his pursuits regarding Carax. He puts it best, saying the story is about "accursed books, about the man who wrote them, about a character who broke out of the pages of a novel so that he could burn it, about a betrayal and a lost friendship. It's a story of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind" (p. 182).
The novel is also about our connection with literature, how it pulls us in and lets us live somewhere else, with someone else through the last page. As he wraps up the multidimensional plot, Zafron says through Bea that "the art of reading is...an intimate ritual, that a book is a mirror that offers us only what we already carry inside us, that when we read, we do it with all our heart and mind" (p. 502). Zafron puts it perfectly; there is no way to elaborate more on the truth of reading.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Like Talking with an Old Friend
Last week I finished Louise Erdrich's The Master Butchers Singing Club, which I've owned for a while but, surprisingly, simply hadn't gotten around to reading.
You see, I adore Louise Erdrich. I'm absolutely infatuated. I was first introduced to Louise (that's right, I like to pretend we're on a first name basis) when I read Love Medicine in my Native American Literature course at IC, which, generally speaking, left little impact on me. I took it during my craziest semester, read less of the material than I'd care to admit and enjoyed even less, and only picked up The Beet Queen in Portland, OR, a year later because I recognized Louise's name and got excited. That book then sat on my shelf until I started teaching two years later, and I started reading it during my study hall duty time (back before I had past students to find me during my down time). I will never forget the moment I realized The Beet Queen was linked to Love Medicine -- I was downright giddy. The subtle link prompted me to reread Love Medicine, and my literary crush on Louise blazed into full-fledged, I-have-to-read-everything-this-woman-writes kind of love.
Generally, when I tell people why I love Erdrich's writing, I explain how I love hearing the same story from multiple perspectives. Love Medicine and some of the other books in that series do that -- each chapter tells us someone else's view of the same story, all moving the story along for us through their eyes and in their voice. (Faulkner also uses this trick, and I love his works as well.) Other novels in that series show us the story from the beginning of the series through the end from an unexpected perspective; either way, we get details we never would've gotten otherwise. I also like that Erdrich didn't write the series in chronological order, and many of the books don't move in a linear fashion, either. My Native American Lit professor explained years ago that this is a characteristic of many Native stories; I like seeing connections in the plot in a new way. All in all, Erdrich created an entire community for me to fall into and fall in love with, and I haven't been able to put her or her characters down since.
Enter The Master Butchers Singing Club. As I said, I was so drawn into Erdrich's world in North Dakota, I simply started buying all of her books, especially those set in or near the fictional Argus like Love Medicine and Singing Club. That's really where the similarities to Erdrich's other novels end, though. Many of the characters in Erdrich's other novels are Native American and show her heritage and culture through their experiences; nearly all of the characters in this novel are European American, some even right off the boat from Germany after WWI. (One character, though, does carry the infamous Lazarre last name found in many other Erdrich books. I love connections like that!) This book moves linearly, told always from a third-person narrator who shifts its omniscient powers from one character to another. This gives a great illusion of various perspectives, but it's not the same as the blatant change in voice that occurs when other Erdrich characters take turns in first-person. It was different -- it was almost traditional; it was more like many, many other books out there than it was like the intertwined Love Medicine series.
And yet, I loved this book, despite the fact that it wasn't like all the Erdrich books I've gotten lost in over the past four years. Erdrich's writing style still felt familiar and fostered that "getting lost" feeling. This book tells of her German American heritage, gives unique insight to German Americans during WWII, shows love and loss from new perspectives, introduces us to another strong, independent woman character, shines a floodlight on the complexities of and connections among sexuality, love, and family. This book is a love story on top of a love story intermingled with a love story -- some romantic, some parental, some seemingly unexplainable -- whose backdrop is a country struggling first with economic depression and then with war. This book is a double murder mystery. This book is a coming of age story. This book has a surprise ending, which makes me hope against all hope that Erdrich will write another novel on this section of the Argus community.
And through it all, it was like hearing an old friend tell me another story. Erdrich might give her characters clear voices, but her own voice and style shine through regardless of her chosen literary techniques. I'd missed Louise, and I hadn't even realized it. I was glad we got to catch up a little.
When I finish Louise's books, I feel much the way Delphine, one of the main characters, did when she finished books:
"When she came to the end of a novel, and put it down and with reluctance left its world, sometimes she thought of herself as a character in the book of her own life. She regarded the ins and outs, the possibilities and strangeness of her narrative. What would she do next?" (p. 301)
You see, I adore Louise Erdrich. I'm absolutely infatuated. I was first introduced to Louise (that's right, I like to pretend we're on a first name basis) when I read Love Medicine in my Native American Literature course at IC, which, generally speaking, left little impact on me. I took it during my craziest semester, read less of the material than I'd care to admit and enjoyed even less, and only picked up The Beet Queen in Portland, OR, a year later because I recognized Louise's name and got excited. That book then sat on my shelf until I started teaching two years later, and I started reading it during my study hall duty time (back before I had past students to find me during my down time). I will never forget the moment I realized The Beet Queen was linked to Love Medicine -- I was downright giddy. The subtle link prompted me to reread Love Medicine, and my literary crush on Louise blazed into full-fledged, I-have-to-read-everything-this-woman-writes kind of love.
Generally, when I tell people why I love Erdrich's writing, I explain how I love hearing the same story from multiple perspectives. Love Medicine and some of the other books in that series do that -- each chapter tells us someone else's view of the same story, all moving the story along for us through their eyes and in their voice. (Faulkner also uses this trick, and I love his works as well.) Other novels in that series show us the story from the beginning of the series through the end from an unexpected perspective; either way, we get details we never would've gotten otherwise. I also like that Erdrich didn't write the series in chronological order, and many of the books don't move in a linear fashion, either. My Native American Lit professor explained years ago that this is a characteristic of many Native stories; I like seeing connections in the plot in a new way. All in all, Erdrich created an entire community for me to fall into and fall in love with, and I haven't been able to put her or her characters down since.
Enter The Master Butchers Singing Club. As I said, I was so drawn into Erdrich's world in North Dakota, I simply started buying all of her books, especially those set in or near the fictional Argus like Love Medicine and Singing Club. That's really where the similarities to Erdrich's other novels end, though. Many of the characters in Erdrich's other novels are Native American and show her heritage and culture through their experiences; nearly all of the characters in this novel are European American, some even right off the boat from Germany after WWI. (One character, though, does carry the infamous Lazarre last name found in many other Erdrich books. I love connections like that!) This book moves linearly, told always from a third-person narrator who shifts its omniscient powers from one character to another. This gives a great illusion of various perspectives, but it's not the same as the blatant change in voice that occurs when other Erdrich characters take turns in first-person. It was different -- it was almost traditional; it was more like many, many other books out there than it was like the intertwined Love Medicine series.
And yet, I loved this book, despite the fact that it wasn't like all the Erdrich books I've gotten lost in over the past four years. Erdrich's writing style still felt familiar and fostered that "getting lost" feeling. This book tells of her German American heritage, gives unique insight to German Americans during WWII, shows love and loss from new perspectives, introduces us to another strong, independent woman character, shines a floodlight on the complexities of and connections among sexuality, love, and family. This book is a love story on top of a love story intermingled with a love story -- some romantic, some parental, some seemingly unexplainable -- whose backdrop is a country struggling first with economic depression and then with war. This book is a double murder mystery. This book is a coming of age story. This book has a surprise ending, which makes me hope against all hope that Erdrich will write another novel on this section of the Argus community.
And through it all, it was like hearing an old friend tell me another story. Erdrich might give her characters clear voices, but her own voice and style shine through regardless of her chosen literary techniques. I'd missed Louise, and I hadn't even realized it. I was glad we got to catch up a little.
When I finish Louise's books, I feel much the way Delphine, one of the main characters, did when she finished books:
"When she came to the end of a novel, and put it down and with reluctance left its world, sometimes she thought of herself as a character in the book of her own life. She regarded the ins and outs, the possibilities and strangeness of her narrative. What would she do next?" (p. 301)
Monday, June 6, 2011
The effects of a few moments
Today I finally finished Iain Pears' Dream of Scipio. It hasn't taken me this long to finish a book in quite some time, and I hate to admit that I'm a little glad it's over.
This is the book that one of my colleagues requires his sophomores in World History to read. Realizing that my knowledge of world history is slight, I decided to read it along with my kids. It's a novel that shows how the stories of three French men -- one living in the fifth century, one living in the fourteenth century, and one living in the 1940s -- are unbelievably intertwined, each dependent on the previous in some way. I learned a great deal about the Catholic Church and the Pope, as well as the Plague and how it affected Europe, and some details about France during WWII that I'd never known before. Overall, it was very educational, something I can easily imagine in a history course.
It was not, however, my type of literature. Educational, yes; captivating, hardly. The student who recommended it to me adored the book -- and even he said that it was a difficult story to "get into." (Side note -- that same student handed me the book and said, "I think you'll be able to understand it." I just smiled and said, "Yeah, I was an English major, remember?" I made no oral comparison of my reading level to that of many sophomores.) I thought three stories intertwined would be right up my alley, but I had a hard time connecting with the characters -- which is really very vital to my getting lost in a story -- until the last 75 pages or so of the 396 pages. (My kids kept telling me that if I could only make it to the last 100 pages, I'd be sucked in; I think I dug in my heels a bit and held out those extra 25 pages.) One reason I couldn't connect was because each story was told by a third person omniscient narrator instead of from each man's perspective. That overarching voice told me what was going on in each man's head, but that one voice is all I heard. I much prefer multiple voices, even when multiple perspectives really are included. I also felt distant because I simply didn't have time to connect with each character; the novel switches from one character/century to the next and back again after very short spurts, instead of changing chapter by chapter as many of my favorite authors do. Some sections were a few short paragraphs; others were a few pages; none were long enough to pull me into the characters' hearts until well into the story. I also felt it took a bit too long for the thematic connection among the men to come through. It was clear from the beginning that Olivier (1300s) researched Manlius (400s), and Julien (1940s) researched Olivier and, in turn, Manlius. But I didn't know why I should care that this research chain occurred until I was already a bit bored with the story. Subtle hints of it earlier than I discovered them, at least, would have created a bit more pull for me.
Now, with all that said, I do believe it is an excellent book, and I'm sure many readers just love it. It has its merits, and if it fits your preferences, I'm sure you can get lost in it the way I would've liked to.
There were a handful of quotes I jotted down as I read that struck me as insightful, beautiful. One was: "Because civilization depends on continually making the effort, of never giving in. It needs to be cared for by men of goodwill, protected from the dark" (p. 29-30). This idea was the main artery of the stories, and Julien summed up the idea well before making his final stand:
"'The evil done by men of goodwill is the worst of all.' That's what my Neoplatonic bishop said, and he was right. He knew. He had firsthand experience of it. We have done terrible things, for the best of reasons, and that makes it worse." (p. 375)
The idea of continual effort, a constant desire for bettering the group, and instances when we think we're doing that but perhaps are not, was moving, to say the least.
On a different note, I also liked the narrator's thought regarding one of Julien's childhood experiences: "Our lives can change direction in an instant, and it is possible that an entire adult can be determined by only a few such moments, sparkling like gold in the dross of everyday experience" (p. 33). That I can believe -- I see students change drastically within a few short months in my classroom and can sometimes pinpoint the catalyst, and I can recall "such moments" in my own life that have shaped who I am today. I wonder how often we identify these experiences as major players in our development when they're actually occurring, or do many of them only appear as such once we can look back and say, "Yes -- it was then that everything changed." Although this was not the main point of the novel, I think this is what I'll take away and continue considering.
This is the book that one of my colleagues requires his sophomores in World History to read. Realizing that my knowledge of world history is slight, I decided to read it along with my kids. It's a novel that shows how the stories of three French men -- one living in the fifth century, one living in the fourteenth century, and one living in the 1940s -- are unbelievably intertwined, each dependent on the previous in some way. I learned a great deal about the Catholic Church and the Pope, as well as the Plague and how it affected Europe, and some details about France during WWII that I'd never known before. Overall, it was very educational, something I can easily imagine in a history course.
It was not, however, my type of literature. Educational, yes; captivating, hardly. The student who recommended it to me adored the book -- and even he said that it was a difficult story to "get into." (Side note -- that same student handed me the book and said, "I think you'll be able to understand it." I just smiled and said, "Yeah, I was an English major, remember?" I made no oral comparison of my reading level to that of many sophomores.) I thought three stories intertwined would be right up my alley, but I had a hard time connecting with the characters -- which is really very vital to my getting lost in a story -- until the last 75 pages or so of the 396 pages. (My kids kept telling me that if I could only make it to the last 100 pages, I'd be sucked in; I think I dug in my heels a bit and held out those extra 25 pages.) One reason I couldn't connect was because each story was told by a third person omniscient narrator instead of from each man's perspective. That overarching voice told me what was going on in each man's head, but that one voice is all I heard. I much prefer multiple voices, even when multiple perspectives really are included. I also felt distant because I simply didn't have time to connect with each character; the novel switches from one character/century to the next and back again after very short spurts, instead of changing chapter by chapter as many of my favorite authors do. Some sections were a few short paragraphs; others were a few pages; none were long enough to pull me into the characters' hearts until well into the story. I also felt it took a bit too long for the thematic connection among the men to come through. It was clear from the beginning that Olivier (1300s) researched Manlius (400s), and Julien (1940s) researched Olivier and, in turn, Manlius. But I didn't know why I should care that this research chain occurred until I was already a bit bored with the story. Subtle hints of it earlier than I discovered them, at least, would have created a bit more pull for me.
Now, with all that said, I do believe it is an excellent book, and I'm sure many readers just love it. It has its merits, and if it fits your preferences, I'm sure you can get lost in it the way I would've liked to.
There were a handful of quotes I jotted down as I read that struck me as insightful, beautiful. One was: "Because civilization depends on continually making the effort, of never giving in. It needs to be cared for by men of goodwill, protected from the dark" (p. 29-30). This idea was the main artery of the stories, and Julien summed up the idea well before making his final stand:
"'The evil done by men of goodwill is the worst of all.' That's what my Neoplatonic bishop said, and he was right. He knew. He had firsthand experience of it. We have done terrible things, for the best of reasons, and that makes it worse." (p. 375)
The idea of continual effort, a constant desire for bettering the group, and instances when we think we're doing that but perhaps are not, was moving, to say the least.
On a different note, I also liked the narrator's thought regarding one of Julien's childhood experiences: "Our lives can change direction in an instant, and it is possible that an entire adult can be determined by only a few such moments, sparkling like gold in the dross of everyday experience" (p. 33). That I can believe -- I see students change drastically within a few short months in my classroom and can sometimes pinpoint the catalyst, and I can recall "such moments" in my own life that have shaped who I am today. I wonder how often we identify these experiences as major players in our development when they're actually occurring, or do many of them only appear as such once we can look back and say, "Yes -- it was then that everything changed." Although this was not the main point of the novel, I think this is what I'll take away and continue considering.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Poetry Slam!
So, tonight I competed in the second annual Poetry Slam at the high school. I had so much fun! Sharing wonderful poetry, laughing and reflecting with great people, and being overly animated (aka making a scene)...good times. :) I was thoroughly impressed with the students and their unique voices, and how they so courageously stood in front of their peers to show everyone their thoughts and feelings. Awesome.
Here are the three poems I shared tonight (yeah, you read it right -- I got to the third round!), in the order I shared them. Hope you enjoy.
Here are the three poems I shared tonight (yeah, you read it right -- I got to the third round!), in the order I shared them. Hope you enjoy.
From Behind the Big Desk
From behind the big desk,
I can see you texting.
From behind the big desk,
I can see you doodling on your notes.
From behind the big desk,
I can see you typing notes on the graphing calculator and showing your friends.
From behind the big desk,
I can see your mouth move as you “don’t talk” to your friend across the room.
From behind the big desk,
I know I’m not the only teacher who asks for your ID.
From behind the big desk,
sometimes you hurt my feelings.
From behind the big desk,
sometimes I can’t wait for the weekend, either.
From behind the big desk,
sometimes 809 is the last place I want to be, too, but I’m still working.
From behind the big desk,
sometimes I can’t wait until you graduate, too.
From behind the big desk,
I can see when it doesn’t make sense,
and I do all I can to reach out to help you,
but I need you to reach back,
to bridge the gap between you and me, behind the big desk.
What I Want for You
Four times now,
I’ve stood before 100+ students
for the first time,
their names still crisp on the Skyward roster,
my voice steady, poorly camouflaging my butterflies.
Four times now,
these students have become my kids,
Mine.
Some like me; some don’t. That’s not required.
Over nine months or so,
we get to know one another, the good and the bad,
and the crazy woman up front
develops not only expectations for you –
but hopes for you as well.
This is what I want for you:
To know how nice it feels to hear someone genuinely ask how you are today.
To learn how you’re wired, so that you can use your strengths and improve your weaknesses.
To always, always, know there is room to improve, to grow.
To live life full of joy and find ways to pass it on.
To respect everyone, even (perhaps especially) those you don’t like.
To realize you are more than capable of success, and to see that the effort really is worth it.
To find your passion, what makes you want to get up every morning, just as I have found mine.
Ode to Spell Check
How I love thee
When I write letters to send home to parents
And emails to my boss.
How I wish, though, that you could recognize my dyslexia
And tell me when I’ve typed “put” instead of “but.”
Thursday, April 7, 2011
"I'm aiming to be somebody this somebody trusts..."
Ok, so I'm repeating my earlier idea of blogging about a concert on the premise that her words were the driving force behind my desire to see Sara Bareilles in concert (again). The woman is an amazing writer. Really.
I started listening to Sara a few years ago when her first album Little Voice came out, and I've been rather obsessed ever since. During my first summer in the apartment, I'd turn on her album around 10 AM when I started working on lesson plans and just let it play in the background on repeat all day, sometimes late into the night as I stayed up facebooking and IMing. Some of the songs still conjure up very specific memories of that summer, certain conversations, certain places (including, but not limited to, a flight to WA state), certain people. I still love how she sings about finding her identity and finding love (or, let's be honest, maybe just chasing a little lust), dealing with hope and loss and confusion and pride, all with equal portions of sassy attitude and vulnerability that we'd usually rather keep hidden. And yes, I meant to say "we" and not "she" -- because that's how she writes her songs, in some magical way that makes me feel like I wrote the words when I'm belting them out at the top of my lungs in the car. I feel like her lyrics are strong, inspiring -- like "I'm aiming to be somebody this somebody trusts...there's only one thing worth trying to be, and it's love..." (from "Bottle It Up" -- check out the lyrics, it's chocked full of great lines). So it was awesome Tuesday night to hear her sing more of those songs that pulled me back two summers and reminded me, then and now, that somebody out there might feel something like I do (which, if you haven't noticed, is what I look most for in great writing).
So then last summer when I found out she was playing for free in St. Louis, I nearly fainted. Tina and Em and I arrived freakishly early and got the best seats possible, and I was completely entranced the entire time she was on stage. The whole concert was like a conversation; somehow I felt like we were all sharing something with her instead of simply listening to what she had to say.
When her second album Kaleidoscope Heart came out last fall, I stayed up late (on a school night) to buy it on iTunes and then listen to the whole album while reading along in the booklet. Obsessed, right? The songs were very different from the first album, and yet I felt like she finally put to words what I'd been feeling for weeks, months perhaps. It was like the stars aligned, and the fates said, "Having trouble finding the right words? Here you go -- hers might do the job, and she even put them to a nice little tune." I listened to her album day after day on my commute home -- even on the way to work every now and then, which is usually a treasured, silent 45 minutes of my day. At Tuesday's concert, I got goosebumps when she (we -- all of Kirkland, really) sang "Uncharted" and "Let the Rain." I loved hearing the background stories for songs, especially one that I only halfheartedly connected with before. She sang one song that I often skipped on the album, and I realized two things: first, that I started skipping it because it hit too close to home, and second, that it no longer did (yeah!).
Now, switch gears for a minute with me. I'm totally impressed with Ms. Sara because she writes her own songs, which isn't always the case in the music industry, and that makes it feel like the songs are that much more powerful. With that said, she also covered other people's songs -- including "Little Lion Man" by Mumford and Sons, which I love, again at least partially because of the lyrics. Realizing that this wonderful wordsmith likes a song that I like, well, that was just the icing on the cake. (Side note on this song -- she wasn't "allowed" to curse during the show, so she had some audience participation to determine what words she would use as substitutes in that song. Fun little activity, but it royally pissed me off that she was censored. That's a topic for another Words blog, though.)
I feel like this blog is particularly rambly and a bit cheesy (I feel a little like a little kid who met her idol, running back to her family saying, "Did you see her?! She was right there!"), but I'm just not sure how to convey how awesome it is to hear someone else say exactly what I've been thinking. I'm all about being unique individuals, but connecting with others like that is sometimes the only way I feel like this life has any focus. So check her out, listen to some of her music and see if she resonates with you, too. Or, if you know she doesn't already, spend the afternoon listening to someone who does, and tell me who it is. Maybe I'll find a new obsession.
"I made up my mind when I was a young girl, that I've been given this one world, and I won't worry it away..." from "Many the Miles"
I started listening to Sara a few years ago when her first album Little Voice came out, and I've been rather obsessed ever since. During my first summer in the apartment, I'd turn on her album around 10 AM when I started working on lesson plans and just let it play in the background on repeat all day, sometimes late into the night as I stayed up facebooking and IMing. Some of the songs still conjure up very specific memories of that summer, certain conversations, certain places (including, but not limited to, a flight to WA state), certain people. I still love how she sings about finding her identity and finding love (or, let's be honest, maybe just chasing a little lust), dealing with hope and loss and confusion and pride, all with equal portions of sassy attitude and vulnerability that we'd usually rather keep hidden. And yes, I meant to say "we" and not "she" -- because that's how she writes her songs, in some magical way that makes me feel like I wrote the words when I'm belting them out at the top of my lungs in the car. I feel like her lyrics are strong, inspiring -- like "I'm aiming to be somebody this somebody trusts...there's only one thing worth trying to be, and it's love..." (from "Bottle It Up" -- check out the lyrics, it's chocked full of great lines). So it was awesome Tuesday night to hear her sing more of those songs that pulled me back two summers and reminded me, then and now, that somebody out there might feel something like I do (which, if you haven't noticed, is what I look most for in great writing).
So then last summer when I found out she was playing for free in St. Louis, I nearly fainted. Tina and Em and I arrived freakishly early and got the best seats possible, and I was completely entranced the entire time she was on stage. The whole concert was like a conversation; somehow I felt like we were all sharing something with her instead of simply listening to what she had to say.
When her second album Kaleidoscope Heart came out last fall, I stayed up late (on a school night) to buy it on iTunes and then listen to the whole album while reading along in the booklet. Obsessed, right? The songs were very different from the first album, and yet I felt like she finally put to words what I'd been feeling for weeks, months perhaps. It was like the stars aligned, and the fates said, "Having trouble finding the right words? Here you go -- hers might do the job, and she even put them to a nice little tune." I listened to her album day after day on my commute home -- even on the way to work every now and then, which is usually a treasured, silent 45 minutes of my day. At Tuesday's concert, I got goosebumps when she (we -- all of Kirkland, really) sang "Uncharted" and "Let the Rain." I loved hearing the background stories for songs, especially one that I only halfheartedly connected with before. She sang one song that I often skipped on the album, and I realized two things: first, that I started skipping it because it hit too close to home, and second, that it no longer did (yeah!).
Now, switch gears for a minute with me. I'm totally impressed with Ms. Sara because she writes her own songs, which isn't always the case in the music industry, and that makes it feel like the songs are that much more powerful. With that said, she also covered other people's songs -- including "Little Lion Man" by Mumford and Sons, which I love, again at least partially because of the lyrics. Realizing that this wonderful wordsmith likes a song that I like, well, that was just the icing on the cake. (Side note on this song -- she wasn't "allowed" to curse during the show, so she had some audience participation to determine what words she would use as substitutes in that song. Fun little activity, but it royally pissed me off that she was censored. That's a topic for another Words blog, though.)
I feel like this blog is particularly rambly and a bit cheesy (I feel a little like a little kid who met her idol, running back to her family saying, "Did you see her?! She was right there!"), but I'm just not sure how to convey how awesome it is to hear someone else say exactly what I've been thinking. I'm all about being unique individuals, but connecting with others like that is sometimes the only way I feel like this life has any focus. So check her out, listen to some of her music and see if she resonates with you, too. Or, if you know she doesn't already, spend the afternoon listening to someone who does, and tell me who it is. Maybe I'll find a new obsession.
"I made up my mind when I was a young girl, that I've been given this one world, and I won't worry it away..." from "Many the Miles"
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Following a book
Today I finally finished Geraldine Brook's novel People of the Book. The novel traces the story of a real Jewish book called the Sarajevo Haggadah, giving fictional accounts of fictional characters throughout its history and telling how it survived over six centuries of catastrophe. I think it is brilliant -- I love stories with multiple narrators, with many different nooks and crannies in the plot where characters' thoughts, emotions, and actions can attempt to hide. The narrators each had unique voices, and their stories were more than believable; they drew me in and made me think about the atrocious events in the Jewish people's history. Sadly, many (if not all) of those events were hatched and carried out in the name of my own faith -- although I cannot understand how people could twist a faith based on love into such torturous claims and actions. I loved how, in the grand scheme of things, the book was a mere bystander in six unique stories of understanding identity, accepting diversity, and conserving individuals' personal histories.
After reading some pieces of their stories, I felt like I needed to put the book down and let what just happened soak in a bit. Violence occurred again and again, but the plot kept moving at such a pace that I felt like I hadn't given the characters enough of my time, my condolences perhaps, before moving on. Brooks' ability to foster that kind of feeling is amazing -- because that is what truly happens in reality -- horrible things happen, and the clock keeps ticking. People might stop to reflect, to cope, but time keeps moving, and sooner or later, we're forced to pick the book back up and see what happens next, whether we're ready to or not. I'm very impressed with Brooks in that regard, and I wonder if she even realizes that her story can have that kind of effect on her readers.
Brooks also wrote two more books I'd like to read: March, the Little Women story told from the father's perspective; and Year of Wonders, a story about the plague in Europe. Brooks won the Pulitzer for March, so I'm sure I'll enjoy them as much as I did People.
Next up, though, is a book my students read for World History and a recommendation from one. I'm also working on my 3+ poems for the annual JHS poetry slam, which is in two weeks. I'm trying to decide if I want to keep my topics funny or make them a bit more serious. Probably funny. My kids really want me to read the "Ms. Arnold-isms" poem, but I keep telling them that people who don't have me in class wouldn't understand how often I really say those things. They're really excited about adding new lines to that poem that I missed last year.
After reading some pieces of their stories, I felt like I needed to put the book down and let what just happened soak in a bit. Violence occurred again and again, but the plot kept moving at such a pace that I felt like I hadn't given the characters enough of my time, my condolences perhaps, before moving on. Brooks' ability to foster that kind of feeling is amazing -- because that is what truly happens in reality -- horrible things happen, and the clock keeps ticking. People might stop to reflect, to cope, but time keeps moving, and sooner or later, we're forced to pick the book back up and see what happens next, whether we're ready to or not. I'm very impressed with Brooks in that regard, and I wonder if she even realizes that her story can have that kind of effect on her readers.
Brooks also wrote two more books I'd like to read: March, the Little Women story told from the father's perspective; and Year of Wonders, a story about the plague in Europe. Brooks won the Pulitzer for March, so I'm sure I'll enjoy them as much as I did People.
Next up, though, is a book my students read for World History and a recommendation from one. I'm also working on my 3+ poems for the annual JHS poetry slam, which is in two weeks. I'm trying to decide if I want to keep my topics funny or make them a bit more serious. Probably funny. My kids really want me to read the "Ms. Arnold-isms" poem, but I keep telling them that people who don't have me in class wouldn't understand how often I really say those things. They're really excited about adding new lines to that poem that I missed last year.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Thinking outside the Book
I was kinda on a roll, reading and posting about a book each week or so, and then last weekend I was (far more social and) out and about so much that I didn't get any reading accomplished. The weekend was still inundated with words, though, despite my lack of reading...
"You know, actually, you're the first person I ever told about this, and I feel a little bit better." (from "The Flood," in Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues)
"You know, actually, you're the first person I ever told about this, and I feel a little bit better." (from "The Flood," in Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues)
For the sixth time, I watched Illinois College's production of Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues; in the second annual one I performed the monologue "The Flood," so that one will always have a special place in my heart. I think that the last line of that monologue, shown above, is one of the most important reasons why we perform and promote VDay year after year. Ensler is right in the opening monologue when she says it's worrisome when we consider how little we talk about these important issues in our culture. It's empowering and comforting to realize other women have had experiences or thoughts very similar to ours. I love hearing new women perform the same monologues each year, emphasizing different lines each time and personalizing the stories to make them their own. I like being able to whisper a line or two to myself as we relive those familiar stories together.
Each year, though, new monologues are introduced to the production, and these are another essential reason for perpetuating VDay. These are the monologues that rarely stir up laughter in the audience; these are the monologues that tell us of the horrendous experiences women have all over our world; these are the monologues that educate us so that we can make a difference and incite change. I love how Ensler draws us in, reminds us that we are all connected, and then shows us the importance of doing all we can to protect and stand up for one another.
"Why do I do it?" (from Ken Bradbury's play From Behind the Curtain)
I also saw my first Ken Bradbury play, From Behind the Curtain, which makes me feel like an official resident of the Springfield/Jacksonville area now. The man is a legend, both in my world of education (he taught for years at Triopia High School and was known throughout our Region) and, obviously, in the world of community theater. It was actually really cool to sit in the Hoogland and see the playwright sitting in the last row of the section below us. He even played the accordion for one of the songs. Completely awesome! I also thoroughly enjoyed the stories Bradbury shared that he collected from local actors. I may not participate in community theater, but I enjoyed hearing about it. And most important, at least for me, were my proud teacher moments -- two JHS students were in the play, one of whom has been my student twice. It's difficult to describe how proud I feel when I see my kids excelling in something so wonderful, even when I only know one actress because she delivers passes from the office to kids in my class. To see them so passionate and so successful is simply inspiring.
"When it falls apart, the pieces fit; you won't see it 'til you're blinded; you can let it go, or hold it tight; when you lose your life, you will find it..." (from "When It Falls Apart" by Matthew Perryman Jones)
And on the Sunday of my long weekend, Em and I drove four hours (one way) to see Matthew Perryman Jones in concert at the SPACE in Evanston, IL. Like the fanatic fans we are, we drove there to see Tyler Hilton a few months ago; this time, we discovered MPJ through a free download of a mix of his songs and days later realized we'd both be free to drive up and back for his concert. It was fate.
Being the word person I am, I'm very lyric driven when I choose my music. Songs can't just sound good; they need to say the right things, and if they don't, the even catchiest tune usually can't redeem the song for me. MPJ is a songwriter after my own heart -- the lyrics are thoughtful and line up and tell me ideas I like to ponder (and sing at the top of my lungs) again and again. I have found, though, that I have to be in the right mood to listen to his albums because the music itself isn't all that peppy.
The best part of this concert experience was that we went for MPJ and fell in love with two more artists, too. Kathryn Ostenberg and Jay Nash also performed and immediately won me over. Jay Nash's songwriting skills are as impressive as MPJ's, and I can listen to his songs even after a long day in Classroom 809.
Now, I'm off to read another segment of my current book, The People of the Book, before starting the first of five full weeks at work. We'll see how long it takes me to finish this one...
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Little Bee...
The back of Little Bee by Chris Cleave just says this:
"WE DON'T WANT TO TELL YOU TOO MUCH ABOUT THIS BOOK.
It is a truly special story and we don't want to spoil it.
Nevertheless, you need to know something, so we will just say this:
It is extremely funny, but the African beach scene is horrific.
The story starts there, but the book doesn't.
And it's what happens afterward that is most important.
Once you have read it, you'll want to tell everyone about it. When you do, please don't tell them what happens either. The magic is in how it unfolds."
And I agree on all parts. So first, I should say -- go out and read it. It only took me a week, sans-snow days, so it can't be too difficult or too long. Then come back and read the rest of this.
To first touch on what the publishers mentioned -- it really was a funny book, but that's not the overall tone, so I wouldn't have thought of that on my own without rereading the back afterward. The cultural juxtapositions were more than necessary for character consistency; they poked fun at Western society just enough to make me stop and think a moment. And the interactions with Charlie/Batman often made me laugh out loud. The beach scene would've made me cry if I hadn't been in the laundry room reading it. I certainly didn't breathe while I read it.
In the beach scene, I felt the "intellectual jet lag" that Sarah tells us she felt. It was difficult to read, so it was easier to file the it away in my mind with all of the violence in The Hunger Games, as events that haven't really happened. But events like the beach scene have happened, are happening. I think that I subconsciously did file them there until Little Bee told us how her sister died, and then suddenly I couldn't help but think of what I would do if Tina and I were there. Talk about not being able to breathe. (Luckily I was back to the apt by then.) Me and Tina. Running from real hunters, real men who only cared about eliminating evidence. And then, I think, the book finally had the impact on me that it was meant to.
In an interview included at the end of the book, Cleave says that "the reader might justifiably side with either Andrew or Sarah." I agree, I think. I'm not sure, and I think that's the point. There were too many factors -- too many realistic factors -- involved for me to take a side, either on the beach or back in England. I didn't become particularly attached to either of them (Andrew didn't really have a chance with me, since Sarah and Little Bee do all of the narration), until after Sarah flew back with Little Bee. Then I was attached to Sarah as much as I had been to Little Bee all along, and by then we only heard from Sarah through Little Bee.
This time, I was given little to no ending, nothing in terms of solid details of how everyone fairs after the last page. This time, though, I was grateful. More details might keep me from playing out the different possibilities, and in doing so, I'd forget that the two weeks the three spent together isn't a likely ending for anyone in Bee's situation. Here the lack of ending doesn't mean a lack of closure: Little Bee sees, there on the beach with Charlie and the village children, a glimpse of what would be ideal. It doesn't happen, because it hasn't happened yet, and will likely be quite some time before it does.
I loved Little Bee's description of tea -- perhaps because I'm an avid tea drinker, but I think because it surprisingly made sense to me. She says that tea "tastes of longing...of the distance between where you are and where you come from. Also it vanishes -- the taste of it vanishes from your tongue while your lips are still hot from the cup." I'm not far from where I grew up, but that doesn't mean I don't long for places of my childhood, of my adolescence. This morning as I drank my hot tea, I considered her words, and I agree -- tea leaves you without a distinct flavor, but only the sense that something was once there. Hence the longing, I suppose.
Overall, I liked Little Bee's discussion with Charlie at the river the most. We might be tempted to shrug off Charlie's belief that staying in his Batman costume will keep everyone he knows safe, but don't we all think like that every now and then? Or, at the very least, wish that we had something that would work that way? And do we ever find ourselves making the assumption that Charlie makes, that all individuals can be strictly categorized as either a "goody or a baddy"? Sometimes we need to be reminded by our own Little Bees that some baddies are right inside us, and that those are often the most difficult baddies to fight.
"WE DON'T WANT TO TELL YOU TOO MUCH ABOUT THIS BOOK.
It is a truly special story and we don't want to spoil it.
Nevertheless, you need to know something, so we will just say this:
It is extremely funny, but the African beach scene is horrific.
The story starts there, but the book doesn't.
And it's what happens afterward that is most important.
Once you have read it, you'll want to tell everyone about it. When you do, please don't tell them what happens either. The magic is in how it unfolds."
And I agree on all parts. So first, I should say -- go out and read it. It only took me a week, sans-snow days, so it can't be too difficult or too long. Then come back and read the rest of this.
To first touch on what the publishers mentioned -- it really was a funny book, but that's not the overall tone, so I wouldn't have thought of that on my own without rereading the back afterward. The cultural juxtapositions were more than necessary for character consistency; they poked fun at Western society just enough to make me stop and think a moment. And the interactions with Charlie/Batman often made me laugh out loud. The beach scene would've made me cry if I hadn't been in the laundry room reading it. I certainly didn't breathe while I read it.
In the beach scene, I felt the "intellectual jet lag" that Sarah tells us she felt. It was difficult to read, so it was easier to file the it away in my mind with all of the violence in The Hunger Games, as events that haven't really happened. But events like the beach scene have happened, are happening. I think that I subconsciously did file them there until Little Bee told us how her sister died, and then suddenly I couldn't help but think of what I would do if Tina and I were there. Talk about not being able to breathe. (Luckily I was back to the apt by then.) Me and Tina. Running from real hunters, real men who only cared about eliminating evidence. And then, I think, the book finally had the impact on me that it was meant to.
In an interview included at the end of the book, Cleave says that "the reader might justifiably side with either Andrew or Sarah." I agree, I think. I'm not sure, and I think that's the point. There were too many factors -- too many realistic factors -- involved for me to take a side, either on the beach or back in England. I didn't become particularly attached to either of them (Andrew didn't really have a chance with me, since Sarah and Little Bee do all of the narration), until after Sarah flew back with Little Bee. Then I was attached to Sarah as much as I had been to Little Bee all along, and by then we only heard from Sarah through Little Bee.
This time, I was given little to no ending, nothing in terms of solid details of how everyone fairs after the last page. This time, though, I was grateful. More details might keep me from playing out the different possibilities, and in doing so, I'd forget that the two weeks the three spent together isn't a likely ending for anyone in Bee's situation. Here the lack of ending doesn't mean a lack of closure: Little Bee sees, there on the beach with Charlie and the village children, a glimpse of what would be ideal. It doesn't happen, because it hasn't happened yet, and will likely be quite some time before it does.
I loved Little Bee's description of tea -- perhaps because I'm an avid tea drinker, but I think because it surprisingly made sense to me. She says that tea "tastes of longing...of the distance between where you are and where you come from. Also it vanishes -- the taste of it vanishes from your tongue while your lips are still hot from the cup." I'm not far from where I grew up, but that doesn't mean I don't long for places of my childhood, of my adolescence. This morning as I drank my hot tea, I considered her words, and I agree -- tea leaves you without a distinct flavor, but only the sense that something was once there. Hence the longing, I suppose.
Overall, I liked Little Bee's discussion with Charlie at the river the most. We might be tempted to shrug off Charlie's belief that staying in his Batman costume will keep everyone he knows safe, but don't we all think like that every now and then? Or, at the very least, wish that we had something that would work that way? And do we ever find ourselves making the assumption that Charlie makes, that all individuals can be strictly categorized as either a "goody or a baddy"? Sometimes we need to be reminded by our own Little Bees that some baddies are right inside us, and that those are often the most difficult baddies to fight.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Hunger Couldn't Wait
"Real."
Two nights ago, I finished Mockingjay by Susan Collins, the third and final book in The Hunger Games series. I have never been sucked into a story the way I was with this one -- which is saying a lot considering how many hours of my life I've spent reading -- and finished the series in 6 days. (Thankfully, the Blizzard of 2011 cooperated with my need to read and gave me 3 consecutive snow days and, therefore, plenty of time to finish.) It might be cheesey, but The Hunger Games left me starving for more until I finally reached the end of Book 3. I think being in Katniss' thoughts made the whole experience come to life around me, and Colllins wrote in such a way that I truly felt I was experiencing Katniss' days and emotions along with her. I'm always drawn into a story that makes me feel I have something in common with a character, especially characters who are, in the grand scheme of things, vastly different from me. I thrive on finding and feeling those commonalities -- in this case, a sense of responsibility, the desire for more even when it isn't clear what you need more of, the need for human interaction and connection when it's not easy to find or when it seems other things are more important, the drive for justice and freedom for all, not just those in charge.
This was one of those stories that, upon finishing it, I reread the ending a few times. I usually do that when I was so engrossed in the story that I didn't feel like I absorbed all of the final details enough. The ending was satisfying and gave a welcomed sense of closure. Even so, I do have one wish -- that Collins had given us more in the last chapter than she did. More about Katniss' thoughts about Coin, more about her trial, more about how she worked through the mess of emotions associated with Gale, left to his own devices in District 2. More about how she and Peeta learned more about each other and found how they fit together. More about how she came to terms with having children. More about how the country continued after Coin, and how Katniss' children would face the past and how their parents were involved.
I recommend this series to anyone and everyone, but only if you have some time to really devote to the books, since I'm not sure you'll want to put Katniss and her revolution on pause to deal with the real world.
Two nights ago, I finished Mockingjay by Susan Collins, the third and final book in The Hunger Games series. I have never been sucked into a story the way I was with this one -- which is saying a lot considering how many hours of my life I've spent reading -- and finished the series in 6 days. (Thankfully, the Blizzard of 2011 cooperated with my need to read and gave me 3 consecutive snow days and, therefore, plenty of time to finish.) It might be cheesey, but The Hunger Games left me starving for more until I finally reached the end of Book 3. I think being in Katniss' thoughts made the whole experience come to life around me, and Colllins wrote in such a way that I truly felt I was experiencing Katniss' days and emotions along with her. I'm always drawn into a story that makes me feel I have something in common with a character, especially characters who are, in the grand scheme of things, vastly different from me. I thrive on finding and feeling those commonalities -- in this case, a sense of responsibility, the desire for more even when it isn't clear what you need more of, the need for human interaction and connection when it's not easy to find or when it seems other things are more important, the drive for justice and freedom for all, not just those in charge.
This was one of those stories that, upon finishing it, I reread the ending a few times. I usually do that when I was so engrossed in the story that I didn't feel like I absorbed all of the final details enough. The ending was satisfying and gave a welcomed sense of closure. Even so, I do have one wish -- that Collins had given us more in the last chapter than she did. More about Katniss' thoughts about Coin, more about her trial, more about how she worked through the mess of emotions associated with Gale, left to his own devices in District 2. More about how she and Peeta learned more about each other and found how they fit together. More about how she came to terms with having children. More about how the country continued after Coin, and how Katniss' children would face the past and how their parents were involved.
I recommend this series to anyone and everyone, but only if you have some time to really devote to the books, since I'm not sure you'll want to put Katniss and her revolution on pause to deal with the real world.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Putting the book down just long enough to write...
I have been reading more this school year than ever before during my career -- mostly because I hunkered down and told myself that I deserve it, especially since I don't get to teach literature right now. All of these were recommended to me by friends, which makes reading them all the more fun since we can compare notes on them afterward.
Since August, I've read all three books in the Millennium Series by Steig Larson, and I stand in awe for several reasons. First I love, love, love how he makes so many details come together and work for a common goal, even details that seem completely irrelevant when I read them the first time. No blatant foreshadowing here (thank goodness -- American Wife had enough to last me a lifetime). I'm also impressed with how much he can suck me into the plot, when his writing style is far from anything I've enjoyed before. He's rather dry for my taste, talks to us in the third person (in case you didn't know, I thrive on first person, even stream of consciousness), gives details opposite of what I want to know, and takes his time moving the plot along. And yet, I was so drawn into Lisbeth's story that I couldn't put the books down. I had to know what happened to her. Right now. Knowing more books followed, and, therefore, that Lisbeth lives, wasn't enough. I had to know all the tiny little details, the ones that Larson only provided when I pried them out of his hands. Details about the police officer's exercise habits, on the other hand, he freely explained. And knowing that Larson had many more books in mind when he unexpectedly died, leaving us only the first three, gives me goosebumps considering the sense of closure we have at the end of Hornet's Nest.
Then, after reading the three books over 4.5 months, I read A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean in a week. Ok, so it's only 105 pages, so that helped. This one was more in the style I seek out -- first person, tell me what you're thinking down to the moment even if it means not telling me exactly what the other characters are doing, provoking thought about the ordinary. I didn't know heads or tails about all of the fly fishing information he gave, but it was at the center of my understanding of the characters, how they interacted, how they saw each other, how they saw themselves. And Mclean is such a wonderful wordsmith -- lines like the opening, "In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing," and, "The storm came on a wild horse and rode over us," painted beautiful images in a very unique way. I would like to write some academic paper on this story, comparing it to a story about sisters, and see what I can find.
And now, I'm in the middle (well, closer to the end) of The Hunger Games, and I only put the book down long enough to write because I was afraid I'd lose my ideas about the other pieces if I go too far into this series. I've nearly finished this book in two days, and I wholeheartedly intend on finishing it tonight before I go to bed, even if it means teaching in a sleepy stupor tomorrow. I have to know how Katniss fairs -- because like with Lisbeth, knowing more books come after isn't enough. Sometimes in math we say that the answer isn't always important, it's the process of getting from the problem to the solution that matters. So it is here, too, where I'm hungry for the journey far more than the destination.
Since August, I've read all three books in the Millennium Series by Steig Larson, and I stand in awe for several reasons. First I love, love, love how he makes so many details come together and work for a common goal, even details that seem completely irrelevant when I read them the first time. No blatant foreshadowing here (thank goodness -- American Wife had enough to last me a lifetime). I'm also impressed with how much he can suck me into the plot, when his writing style is far from anything I've enjoyed before. He's rather dry for my taste, talks to us in the third person (in case you didn't know, I thrive on first person, even stream of consciousness), gives details opposite of what I want to know, and takes his time moving the plot along. And yet, I was so drawn into Lisbeth's story that I couldn't put the books down. I had to know what happened to her. Right now. Knowing more books followed, and, therefore, that Lisbeth lives, wasn't enough. I had to know all the tiny little details, the ones that Larson only provided when I pried them out of his hands. Details about the police officer's exercise habits, on the other hand, he freely explained. And knowing that Larson had many more books in mind when he unexpectedly died, leaving us only the first three, gives me goosebumps considering the sense of closure we have at the end of Hornet's Nest.
Then, after reading the three books over 4.5 months, I read A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean in a week. Ok, so it's only 105 pages, so that helped. This one was more in the style I seek out -- first person, tell me what you're thinking down to the moment even if it means not telling me exactly what the other characters are doing, provoking thought about the ordinary. I didn't know heads or tails about all of the fly fishing information he gave, but it was at the center of my understanding of the characters, how they interacted, how they saw each other, how they saw themselves. And Mclean is such a wonderful wordsmith -- lines like the opening, "In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing," and, "The storm came on a wild horse and rode over us," painted beautiful images in a very unique way. I would like to write some academic paper on this story, comparing it to a story about sisters, and see what I can find.
And now, I'm in the middle (well, closer to the end) of The Hunger Games, and I only put the book down long enough to write because I was afraid I'd lose my ideas about the other pieces if I go too far into this series. I've nearly finished this book in two days, and I wholeheartedly intend on finishing it tonight before I go to bed, even if it means teaching in a sleepy stupor tomorrow. I have to know how Katniss fairs -- because like with Lisbeth, knowing more books come after isn't enough. Sometimes in math we say that the answer isn't always important, it's the process of getting from the problem to the solution that matters. So it is here, too, where I'm hungry for the journey far more than the destination.
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