Instead of sitting around trying to come up with ASSinine punny names for future books in the Twilight Series--Breaking Wind, Full Moon, The Butt Crack of Dawn--I thought I'd give you a few titles for teen girls ... and middle-aged librarians who have never made the emotional leap beyond 17.
Books for older teens (i.e. they feature sex, sexual assault, pregnancy or drugs or they're simply sophisticated from a narrative standpoint)
I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith: let's start with first principles, here, folks. Published in 1948, this book pretty much invented the YA genre. It's still crackles with sexual energy and naive despair after all these years. The 2003 film version wasn't bad either, IMHO.
Before Wings by Beth Goobie: A 15-yr-old girl who has an aneurysm in her heart goes to summer camp where she engages with spirits who haunt the lake at night. Goobie is one of the most insightful and lyrical YA writers out there. She should be giving writing lessons to every aspiring novelist. It's too bad she's a bit of a recluse who doesn't do workshops because, oh my, her skills are so needed right now.
Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson: Melinda is raped at a party during the summer before high school and spends her freshman year as a social outcast. What might otherwise be yet-another-problem-novel is made rich by the depth of Melinda's character and the cutting authenticity of the high school environment.
Seven for a Secret by Mary C. Sheppard: Set in a Newfoundland out-port in 1960, this book tells the stories of three teen cousins as they unearth the secrets of their pasts and face the sometimes harsh realities of their futures. The narrative voice of 15-yr-old Melinda is spot on with the warmth of the Newfoundland dialect.
The Corner Garden by Lesley Krueger. I reviewed this novel a few years back and loved it. Toronto author, Krueger, stitches together the life of a troubled teen with that of her aged neighbour who has not yet come to terms with her own teen regrets as a Nazi sympathizer in 1940s Holland. And, no, this is NOT yet another WWII/Holocaust novel for children. I too will admit that that particular genre has been done to death. It is, however, more of a YA/Adult cross-over.
Feed by M.T. Andersen: A YA dystopia that actually has the courage to be a dystopia rather than carrying a saccharine message of hope. The characters in the novel receive everything they need through the feed that is implanted in their brains. They can order and buy any kind of experience they want. The only problem is the "they" gets lost in the "want."
Sights by Susanna Vance: How's this for a first sentence: "I was in the womb eleven and one half months, came out fat, durable and gorgeous." Baby Girl was born with the Sight but it doesn't let her see her own future. She and her Momma have fled her dad and now she's starting high school all sore-thumbish in a new town. Reading this book is all tickly, like drinking icy ginger ale on a hot day.
Sloppy Firsts by Megan McCafferty: Jessica spends a year missing her best friend Hope. No, it's not quite an allegory. It is, however, a smart, sassy look at high school written by a writer for Cosmo Girl. It also includes an irrational attraction to a bad boy, but this one is sorta kinda ok in the end and, most importantly, DOESN'T WANT TO EAT ANYBODY OR READ THEIR THOUGHTS. Some may lump Sloppy Firsts with other teen fluff like L.B.D: It's a Girl Thing or Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging but I found it to be a cut above. So did ole Whatzernamenow, the Harvard freshman who infamously plagiairized it a couple of years ago. Second Helpings, the sequel isn't so bad either.
True Confessions of a Heartless Girl by Martha Brooks: This from the epigraph attributed to John Gardner: "There are really only two plot lines: a stranger rides into town and a stranger rides out of town." In the book, a community nurtures a pregnant teen who lands in their midst. Sometimes the setting feels like a throw back to, uh, I dunno, a combination of Leacock's Mariposa and a the estrogen-laden bear hug novels of Carol Shields. In the end, it proves twice over that it takes a village to raise a child ... and that it takes a child to bind a village unto itself.
Books for your 11 and 12 year old girls who are reading Twilight despite your admonishments
Before Wings by Beth Goobie: See above. I love this book so much I accidentally gave it to my niece two Christmases in a row.
Everything on a Waffle, The Canning Season or just about anything written by Polly Horvath: Do you know the novels of Horvath? She's crackles with dark humour and creates some of the most memorable supporting characters out there.
The Emily Series by L.M. Montgomery (like duh)
Surviving the Applewhites by Stephanie Tolan: A pro-(quirky) family, pro-creativity, pro-happiness book for emerging teens. Imagine. It's also great, whacky reading for the home-schoolers out there.
Howl's Moving Castle or Witch Week or just about anything by Diana Wynne Jones. Diana Wynne Jones is round about one of the best fantasy writers for children ever but let's not get into that now, shall we? We could alway save fantasy and sci-fi for another list, another day.
Stravaganza: City of Masks by Mary Hoffman. OK, so I have a thing for fantasy when it comes to my late, middle readers. I put this one on the list because of the love interest in it--you know, in order to appeal to the Twilight readers.
You could also check out Kittenpie's book review site for older readers here. For those who don't know her, KP is my mommyblogging librarian doppelganger in Toronto. She also has the distinct advantage of reading far more widely that I do because, I suspect, she is just plain better at her job.
Do any of you have any suggestions, recommendations for me in the teen girl genre? I've had Jennifer Donnelly's A Northern Light and Sheree Fitch's The Gravesavers by my bed for about six months now but other books keep jumping the queue.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Because a couple of you asked...
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Miss M's been reading again...
The lazy, hazy days are here and my mom is getting really s-l-o-w with this blogging gig. It might have to do with the amount of time we spend splashing around the wading pool with my new elephant floatie. Wheeee!!!!! Or maybe SYTYCD is getting in the way. We watch it together on Saturday afternoons so that I can try out all the moves. You should see my salsa lift. It's a wonder to behold. I've also perfected break dancing and hippity hop dancing. Mom tried to tell me they were the same thing but I don't believe her. And then there's Battlestar Gallactica on DVD that Mom sometimes mutters dreamily about in her sleep. Can anyone tell me what "pull Apollo's towel" means?
Just so you know, my Mom does all her writing and reading on a desktop computer, far from the TV domestic hub, in the hottest room in the house. Summer takes its toll. What I think Mom really needs is a bloggy vacation for a week or two so that she can cool off. I thought I'd help by taking over today's post to give her that gentle push out the door. Don't be surprised if she isn't around much for the next little while.
As you all know, I'm going to be 3 and a half in just over a week. That means it's high time I told you just what I've been reading since my 3rd birthday. You should check these books out at your local library 'cause libraries are simply the best. Just so you know, I came to that conclusion by myself; I didn't need old smarty pants mommy-librarian telling me what to think. Oh and just in case your kids aren't 3 and 1/2 like me, Mom keeps all my lists up on the side-bar over there. Besides, who really reads to assigned age levels anyway? I love everything from baby books to classic Pooh, thank you very much. As long as you're under 6, there's bound to be something on this list you'll like.
Because I've read over a hundred books since January, I've put my absolute favourites in bold so you'll know what to look for first. Here you go. Have a happy summer. Make sure you don't take library books into the wading pool, ok? Mom says that's bad.
Alexander, Sue. World Famous Muriel and the Scary Dragon (thanks, Kittenpie!)
Bachelet, Gilles. My cat, the silliest cat in the world
Baxter, Nicola. The Rainbow Fairies
Bemelmans, Ludwig. Madeline and the Bad hat
Madeline in London
Bottner, Barbara. Bootsie Barker Bites
Bourgeois, Paulette. Franklin Wants a Pet
Franklin's secret club
Franklin has a sleepover
Franklin's school play
Bridwell, Norman. Clifford and the Big Storm
Clifford's Birthday Party
Clifford's Happy Days: a pop-up book
Clifford Takes a Trip
Clifford's Tricks
Briggs, Raymond. The Snowman(we had a shortened version of it for little kids like me)
Brown, Margaret Wise. The summer noisy book
de Brunhoff, Laurent. Babar the King
Babar's Travels
Child, Lauren. But Excuse Me That is My Book
I am not Sleepy and I will not go to Bed
I will never, not ever Eat a Tomato
Snow is My Favorite and My Best
Chodos-Irvine, Margaret. Best, Best Friends
Clark, Emma Chichester. I Love You, Blue Kangaroo
What Shall We Do, Blue Kangaroo?
Cooper, Helen. The Bear Under the Stairs
Cronin, Doreen. Dooby, Dooby Moo
Diouf, Sylviane. Bintou's Braids
Donaldson, Julia. Charlie Cook's Favourite Book
The Gruffalo
The Gruffalo's Child
Fitch, Sheree. Sleeping Dragons All Around
Freeman, Don. Dandelion
Fujikawa, Gyo. Jenny and Jupie
Gay, Marie-Louise. Caramba
Rabbit Blue
What Are You Doing Sam?
Gilman, Phoebe. The Gypsy Princess
Gonsalves, Rob. Imagine a Day
Guarini, Deborah. Is Your Mama a Llama?
Hoff, Syd. Danny and the Dinosaur
Danny and the Dinosaur Go to Camp
Hoberman. You Read to Me; I'll Read to you
Hutchins, Pat. Rosie's Walk
Jenkins, Steve and Robin Page. What Do You Do With a Tail Like This?
Johnson, Gillian. My Sister Gracie
Keats, Ezra Jack. The Snowy Day
Regards to the Man in the Moon
Kuskin, Karla. So, What's it Like to be a Cat?
LeBlanc Cate, Annette. The Magic Rabbit
Levert, Mireille. An Island in the Soup
Lobel, Arnold. Frog and Toad are Friends
Days with Frog and Toad
Frog and Toad All Year
Frog and Toad Together
Owl at Home
Lunn, Janet. Amos' Sweater
Marshall, Edward. Space Case
Milne. A. A. Christopher Robin Leads and Expotition
Eeyore has a Birthday
Kanga and Roo Come to the Forest
Pooh Goes Visiting
Pooh and Piglet Go Hunting (we have a set with these stories all as separate books but you can find them all and more together in Winnie the Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner)
Morris, Carla. The Boy Who Was Raised By Librarians
Munsch, Robert. Johnathan Cleaned Up (The Blackberry Subway Jam)
The Paper Bag Princess
Muth, Jon J. Zen Shorts
Novak, Matt. Mouse TV
Numeroff, Laura Joffe. If You Give a Moose a Muffin
If You Take a Mouse to School
Pfister, Marcus. Hopper Hunts for Spring
Potter, Beatrix. The Tale of Benjamin Bunny
The Tale of Peter Rabbit (Mom tells me there's lots more of these books. I can hardly wait.)
Rathmann, Peggy. Officer Buckle and Gloria
Reid, Barbara. The Golden Goose
Scarry, Richard. Learn to Count
Please and thank you book
Richard Scarry's funniest storybook ever
Richard Scarry's what do people do all day
Rohmann, Eric. Time Flies
Simmons, Jane. Come Along, Daisy!
Sis, Peter. Going Up
Waving
Stewart, Sarah. The Library
Thayer, Ernest. Casey at the Bat. Illus. by Patricia Polacco (Mom says that the grown ups might really like this version illustrated by Christopher Bing or this more recent one illustrated by Joe Morse.)
Urbanovic, Jackie. Duck at the Door
Wadell, Martin. Let's Go Home, Little Bear
Squeak-a-lot
Wiesner, David. June 29, 1999
Sector 7
Tuesday
Wells, Rosemary. McDuff Comes Home (Do NOT read Shy Charles or Felix the Worrier. They made me feel bad.)
Willems, Mo. Edwina the Dinosaur Who Didn't Know She Was Extinct
Knuffle Bunny Too: A Case of Mistaken Identity
Wynne-Jones, Tim. The Last Piece of Sky
Zoom Away
Zoom At Sea
Zoom Upstream
Yolen, Jane. How Do Dinosaurs Eat Their Food?
Moon Ball
Zacks, Irene. Space Alphabet
I like non-fiction too! Here are some of my favourite call #'s:
567 Dinosours. I was sooooo into dinosaurs this spring. When I grow up I want to be a Tyrannosaurs... and a teacher and a dancer and an actor and a mommy. I liked this book a lot. It wasn't too grown up:
Petty, Kate. I didn't know Dinosaurs Laid Eggs
520s: Outer space
597: fish and frogs and turtle and sharks. Oh my!
599: Elephants. Ah, sweet, sweet elephants.
Mom just brought home a bunch of science books for kids my age. I will report back on my next list.
Chirp Magazine: I now have my own subscription and I LOVE IT!
I also watch bits and pieces of these cool DVDs with mom: Planet Earth (disc one has a fantastic elephant sequence but beware of all the food chain stuff that goes on just after it. Sometimes, it's hard being an impressionable, 3-yr-old vegetarian) and Blue Planet (hammerhead sharks are sooooo fun).
One last thing: if you find my lists useful, please tell other people about them or link to them because Mom spends a lot of time typing them out for me and she'd like to make sure that all the typing is worth her while. And now, I am going to make her back away from the keyboard so that she can rinse out our bathing suits for tomorrow.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Sticks and stones
The American Film Institute hogged another 3 hours of network television time last night to countdown a bunch more self-important films in a self-important industry dominated by a self-important country. Last night's obsession was 10 genre-based Top 10 lists of really, really great movies. Rah, rah America, mom, 'n apple pie. Now, once and for all, we know what the top Sci-Fi movie of all time is. How did we ever live without the knowing? No doubt like apes dancing around an obelisk. Oooooo, and who would've doubted Raging Bull as the number 1 contenda for best sports movie evah? My poor Bull Durham-y heart.
Gack, I shouldn't be so cynical about these lists. I love movies: those from America and those from beyond. I don't even mind the pseudo-drama created by countdown lists. I LIVED my teen years debating Q107's top rock albums/singles OF ALL TIME, lists that dominated the radio and my family's conversation each New Year's Day. Me-then-Mad would've wrestled you to the ground if you doubted the supremacy of Dark Side of the Moon for even a second.
No I don't hate movies and lists. What I hate is the friggin' Hollywood engine that drives film supremacy at the expense of other artistic genres. Neither my local paper nor the local TV news offers any arts reporting anymore. It's all syndicated feeds designed to sell movies and the star engine behind them. Movies aren't even reviewed; some slick sounding guy simply describes the plot in a wormy way designed to make you rip your mouth open on the hook. Then the American Film Institute comes along and, essentially, buys a three-hour movie commercial and passes it off as television programming. Grrr.
Late last week, a former teacher and mentor of mine passed away at the age of 81. By the time I landed in his Canadian Literature class in 1987, James Reaney was already as crazy as a loon. He would block the door with a chair precisely at the stroke of 2 so that any late comers would be humiliated upon entering the room. He would, out of the blue, draw maps of South-Western Ontario on the blackboard and then quiz us as to the names of all the counties. "You must know the place you stand in," he would say. He would point out the window and woe betide you if you couldn't identify the species of tree he was pointing at. Once, he gave us an unidentified sight poem to analyze and told us that the result would be worth 10% of our grade. A week later he handed back the assignments. We had all failed. "I should know," he quipped. "I wrote the poem."
It didn't matter how off he sometimes seemed in class. Rumour had it he didn't cope well around the time of year that his 12-year-old son had died. Truth was, he rarely coped well in class. That didn't mean he wasn't inspirational. We all saw the spark of genius in him and he made me, for one, want to prove to him that I had a spark as well. At times, he almost made me believe I did.
None of what I've written matters, really. Professor Reaney's class is nothing but a distant memory. What matters is that he wrote a trilogy of plays in the mid-1970s that are, in my opinion, the greatest literary works to have come out of Canada. Too bold a statement? How about if I say they are the greatest plays ever to have been written and produced in Canada. Do you know them? Sticks and Stones, The St. Nicholas Hotel, Wm Donnelly Prop., and Handcuffs. Combined, they are his retelling of the story of the Black Donnellys of Lucan Ontario. The Donnellys were a scrappy Irish Catholic family that ran a stage coach business in direct competition with a Protestant family in rual, Protestant Ontario. They seemed to get into no end of mischief which is why we may never know why a mob of townsfolk stormed their house in February 1880 and murdered 5 members of the family before burning their house.
In Reaney's hands this Ontario gothic tale is pure poetry and movement. The sets in the plays call for little more than ladders and crates. The language dances. The themes are epic pinned to a small landscape. Reaney breathes unison and crescendo into the word ensemble in a way that I've not seen matched elsewhere. This trilogy is critically acknowledged as some of the best and most influential drama to come out of this country. Have you seen any one of them produced?
Most of you will answer no to this question. Damn you, American Film Institute. You're like a big old Protestant lynch mob descending on what I consider sacred.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Stuff (White) Mommy Bloggers Like
Have you seen this blog? Stuff White People Like. Apparently it's the new big thing on the internet; the authors have a book deal and everything and they haven't even been blogging for three full months. I poked around it a bit this weekend. When it is good, it is very, very good; when it is bad, it is ... standard-issue, puerile, male internet offensive. And then there are the commenters! Yowza!!! It all makes for a fun blog, though I'm not sure why anyone would want to buy the book--unless it's to put it in the bathroom so that shitting guests will think, "hey, my host is cool, self-reflexive and internet-savvy!"
Now, I may not be a queen of satire but I'm always game for a little self-mockery and, even though I'm afraid this post will go over like a lead fart, I can't resist giving you a list of Stuff (White) Mommy Bloggers Like.
1. Using parenting experts as straw men in order to uphold the virtues of good, old-fashioned common sense: Any self-respecting (White) Mommy Blogger ((W)MB) has written at least one post lambasting a parenting guru. Favourite targets are Dr. Sears, Jack Newman, or any sucker who has ever tried addressing sleep issues in infants. (W)MBs particularly like beating the snot out of male parenting gurus. The same can be said for syndicated parenting columnists, particularly if they too are men. When a (W)MB reads a post of this nature by another (W)MB she usually comments by saying, "You are such a good mother. Only you know what's best for your child." Optionally, she may add a "sistah" to the end of her comment.
2. Contemporary idiom: The (W)MB desires to be young and hip but does not wish to sacrifice a second goal: sounding wise beyond her years. To achieve this, she will often cite noted theorists or canonical authors while simultaneously tossing off words such as dude and asshat. The (W)MB loves linking to The Urban Dictionary. Not only does it make her look dope to her peeps but it draws attention away from the fact that all other links from her blog are to wikipedia and/or posts from her own archive.
3. Letting her heart bleed for all to see: The (W)MB likes to wring her hands at the world's ills. Unfortunately, this makes her fear that doing so smacks of slacktivism. To create a smoke-screen, she will resort to discussing the erosion of journalistic integrity or the socialist politics of Howard Zinn. Sometimes she even links to Wikipedia in an effort to bamboozle.
4. Righteous rage: The (W)MB is a finger-wagger like no other. The focus of her righteous rage is almost always a target external to the (W)MB community because the (W)MB knows that courtesy reigns in the (W)MBlogosphere, dammit. The only exception to this rule is the issue of commercialization of the (W)MBlogosphere. On this issue the righteous rage has been known to fly from all sides. Fortunately for all (W)MBs, most (W)MBs now turn away from any discussions on this issue because it has repeated itself around the (W)MBlogosphere like a radish burp with none of its soothing, warm, healthy aftertaste.
5. Inclusiveness: The (W)MB LOVES inclusiveness, particularly if she is the only one talking about it.
6. Shoes: What (W)MB doesn't like a great pair of shoes? Or boots? Or funky W
7. Breastfeeding controversy: The (W)MB simply loves a good breastfeeding controversy. Sit Bill Maher down in an Applebees or, better yet, have him fly American Airlines and the (W)MB gets all a-tingle. What better way to satisfy righteous rage (see above) than to proclaim oneself a lactivist! Besides, a good tirade against an anti-breast crusader can help a (W)MB forget just how miserable her own experience of lactation truly was.
8. Bratz-bashing: Bratz-bashing is not a universal (W)MB trait. It is the sole domain of the (W)MB with a girl-child. (W)MBs with boy children alternate between wishing they had a girl child and thanking their lucky stars they need not engage in Bratz-bashing. Occasional Barbie and Polly Pocket bashings have been witnessed in the (W)MBlogoshpere but such tirades have paled in comparison to the vitriol needed for a good Bratz-bash.
9. Daddy-bloggers: (W)MBs LOVE daddy-bloggers ... because tokenism feels oh so good when it's turned on its head.
10. Books: (W)MBs are a well-read bunch. They review books. They talk about books. Occasionally, they put pictures of books on their side-bars. They do this in an effort to create an aura of wisdom for their blogs. The (W)MB's ultimate end, though, is to distract other (W)MBs from noticing that the (W)MB must, in fact, be spending her every waking moment writing posts and/or reading other (W)MBlogs instead of books. Ditto for TV, movies and other forms of popular culture.
OK, I open the floor to comments. What did I miss? On the off-chance you don't find the humour in this, please keep in mind that each of these points can be directed squarely at me.
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Re: #3 above. The Just Post round table is just around the corner. Please send your links to me at madhattermommyAThotmailDOTcom if you read or wrote a post or posts about social justice in the month of March. You've got until next Monday night to get them in. Confused? Click on one of the purple birds on the sidebar.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
But you don't really care for music, do you?
My brother-in-law, L, never listens to music. He says it holds no attraction for him; in fact, he finds music a public annoyance because it's always destroying his train of thought. When he's not listening to music (ha!), L is one of the foremost philosophy scholars in Canada. He's also the National Champion for his age group in track cycling. Oh yes, my husband's genes are of the intense, purist variety. Of the four boys, two are professors, one's an anesthesiologist and the other's a stay-at-home dad. The SAHD dad is a Birkebeiner racer (that's x-country skiing for 55 kms while carrying a baby, fyi) and, as you know, MadDad is a marathoner. Like I say, intense.
I got to thinking about L's disdain for music last Tuesday night when my attention was briefly captured by American Idol. I used to be an Idol-head but the show has long since lost its brassy shine for me. In the few minutes the TV was on, I saw a frightfully inarticulate pretty-boy with dread locks do a passing karaoke imitation of Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah (ok, Cohen's Hallelujah but no one would ever try to imitate Cohen's vocal stylings, now would they?). The song was trimmed down, of course, to meet time constraints and wouldn't you know it the verses that were removed were the sacred and profane ones. The song became nothing more than a neat break-up song with Old Testament overtones.
The judges were very much pleased with Dread Boy's performance. In fact, Simon Cowell commended it saying, "That was brilliant. The Jeff Buckley version of that song is one of my favourite songs of all time."
Pause
Pause
Pause
Yes, Simon Cowell, our greatest pop culture arch-villain, the man who gave us The Spice Girls and Hunky Tenors Who Sing Air Supply (aka Il Divo), the man who packages cult of personality entertainment and formulaic pap tunes, actually lists Buckley's version of Cohen as an all-time favourite. I need not mention that neither Cohen nor Buckley would have ever got a record deal under Cowell or that a 7 minute song of delicate timing and ethereal precision would never cut it in the Cowell industrial complex. Why, Dread Boy's version on YouTube is only 4 minutes and 24 seconds and that includes his pre-song interview and the judges comments. There's no grace in that. Yet, Mr. s'Cowell loves this song. As do I.
The Cohen version was on one of the first CDs I ever bought. I picked up Buckley's Grace in the mid-90s and, then, just before Miss M was born I treated myself to kd lang's Hymns of the 49th Parallel. When Miss M was a newborn, we would frequently dance together to lang's version of the song. While I suffered the psychic gashes brought on by lactation and all manner of deprivation, my daughter wooed me with her own cold and broken hallelujah. Her fathomless infant eyes never left my face as we swayed around the room.
Then one day, when she was three weeks old, I looked up from one of these dances and saw my husband looking at me enraptured. My sister was there too, having traveled a great distance to initiate me into the rituals of motherhood. It was there that I found grace: in love, in family and in a simple pop tune well executed.
I am no philosopher. The things that I have faith in need no proof. I can live without intensity or purity of purpose. I cannot, however, live without poetry, without music, without art, without veiled glimpses at all that is sacred and profane. Last night, Miss M and I listened to Buckley's Hallelujah while she brushed her teeth. She danced away from the sink wearing nothing but a pj top, her pale bum in the lamplight overthrowing all that I am.
