GREGORY MAGUIRE

I would like to start off this book review with much thanks to A.J. I have no idea who you are but you left your name (which I have not used in full) scribbled on a torn piece of paper in blue ink your name and word conspirtor (slightly misspelled, that's okay) between pages 150 and 151 of the book Lost by Gregory Maguire. Yes,I have a copy of the note. I left the original in
the book.Scanners are wonderful inventions. No, I won't tell anyone what your real name is and it will remain a secret. Mine. And yours.

That little bit of business out of the way, I truly love Gregory Maguire's books. I have read Wicked, Son of a Witch, Mirror, Mirror, and now Lost. Thank Goddess for libraries or I would be broke buying books like Li Qingzhao.

Yes, it is difficult to say which book I enjoyed the most. Of the four that I have read, Wicked, Lost, and Son of a Witch are the strongest. Mirror, Mirror is emotionally flat. The book is too studied and self conscious of its word play. The three I enjoyed are rich in word texture and emotion. I felt deep sadness at the death of Elfie in Wicked. Son of A Witch was effective because there was her absence throughout the novel.

Lost was spotty in its narrative flow. There wasn't consistent thread in the story to recommend it as one of Maguire's best.
While there was the bumpy flow to the tale, Lost was still have-to-turn-another-page-just-to- see-what-happens-book. It was also a bit eerie to read. I was reading Lost and come to a passage about a family that had lost children in a fire. The fictional family had hired an adoption agency to soothe their loss of two children. I also had read, at the time, an article in the Vancouver Sun about a family that was using IVF to soothe their loss of children in a house fire. The coincidence was creepy and strange. However, I am not surprised to have the synchronization. There have been many times when I have thought of a relative (not always with loving emotions) and the relative has telephoned. I have had strong premonitions about people that have come close to the mark. I half, and only half, joke that it is the witch blood from my father's genealogy that creates the odd happenings I have found in my life.

Yes, of course, I'm rational while I write this blog. The soughing of the British Columbia wind has not got my senses, yet. Tomorrow will be dedicated to the grind after a pleasant literary holiday with Mr Maguire. Hélas, it is back to schlepping for hire work while trying to write the somewhat readable Canadian novel. 'Til then...

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POEM OF THE MONTH

Hélas!

To drift with every passion till my soul
Is a stringed lute on which can winds can play,
Is it for this that I have given away
Mine ancient wisdom and austere control?
Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll
Scrawled over on some boyish holiday

With idle songs for pipe and virelay,
Which do but mar the secret of the whole.
Surely there was a time I might have trod
The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance
Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God:

Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod
I did but touch the honey of romance -
And must I lose a soul's inheritance?

Oscar Wilde

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WEBBY AWARDS

I recently finished a stint as a reviewer for the Webby Awards. The producer that I worked with was fantastic. She should be cloned, photocopied, scanned, or otherwise replicated for being a great coach through my first time as a reviewer. I have had no trouble with these employers because they were fair dealing with their expectations. And I'm getting paid!

I enjoyed the process. There are some gems but a lot of drek on the Internet. The best lessons that I took from this employment was to look at my own blogs to critique the functionality and design. I've been revising the type on the site and creating a consistent look.

And maybe, if I am not busy this time next year, I might sign up again.

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AWAY UNTIL FEBRUARY

I'm away from blogging until early February.I have a paying gig writing web reviews. More on that when I return.

WHAT I AM READING NOW

On occasion,I'll share what I am reading off-line. More fodder for my book diary.

Mirror, Mirror by Gregory Maguire. I have read Wicked and Son of Witch.

Maguire's books are tasty. They pulled me out of a holiday funk and pushed me to write again. I have finished at least two chapters of a manuscript because of the inspiration that his books engendered.

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POEM OF THE MONTH

My sleep last night was troubled by a violent storm outside,

And when I work I still felt dizzy from the lingering effect of
wine ;

Anxiously I asked the maid who rolled up the bamboo curtains,

To my surprise came her reply, "The flowers are all right. "

"But that's impossible, and don't you know all would remain a scene,

Of petals fallen and leaves of their company sorrowfully deprived!"

--Li Qingzhao

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UPDATE: FOOD STUFF

Yes, the Hobbit Shire Soup was good. If you remember two months ago, I wrote a post where I was sipping oolong tea and contemplating Hobbit Shire Soup. It was delicious. I plan to make it tonight mainly because my significant other has not got the cheque that he has been promised and we are down to the last dime in the bank, if that. No one ever said that writers automatically become rich and famous. Hobbit Shire Soup is quick, easy and, most importantly, cheap to make out of pasta, tomatoes,onions, and chickpeas. You have the basic food groups: grain, fruit, vegie, and protein. It's good if you have bay leaf and parsley at hand. A writer's feast.

Oh hell. I am so depressed. I have a manuscript that I would like to get out but the synopsis is just not gelling for me. I know the cheque is in the mail. Isn't it always? That doesn't matter when the mail slot is empty. I understand at these times Chaucer's Complaint to His Purse:"To you, my purse, and to none other wight /Complain I, for you be my lady dear!/ I am so sorry, now that you be light;" The physical container for money is flat and also the bank of imagination. The only things that keep me going are the neighbour kids that occasionally drop by to see my youngest. Some of those children don't get breakfast. I feed them but lately worry if my family is going to make it through the week or to the end of the month with our sparse larder. However, I can't refuse children who say that they are hungry with their being pale thin creatures on my doorstep, and Canadian winters cold and without regard. Mine is just a temporary bump until the cheque arrives. I know that some of these children live in households of seven where there is just enough apartment space for four people.

Perhaps writing is not just for money. Whenever there is a setback or crisis, writing is a lifeline that the neighbour children do not have. I'm holding on tight to the last thread.

UPDATE: CHEQUE ARRIVED! YEA!

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