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Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts

Amish Dresses

A while back I was commissioned by a colleague at work to make two each of Amish-style dresses, aprons, and caps for a photo shoot. Though I had little time (one week) and almost no pattern (I adjusted one for the dresses and made up the aprons and caps while looking at a couple very small photos) they turned out nicely. The girls who acted as models loved them. I got to see some of the photos a while back, but as they were copyrighted by the photographer and were going to be used for illustrations for an upcoming series of children's books, my company obviously did not want them floating around on the internet.

However, the illustrated book cover is now online because the Fall 2012 season of book releases has just been announced. And that means I can finally give you a glimpse!


This is the first in a series of four books for girls ages 8 to 12. There are line illustrations throughout (or there will be when the time comes) that will show more angles of the dresses, aprons, and caps, but for now a front view will have to be enough.

It was really fun to be able to use my hobby to support my real job. If you have or know girls who might like to read about life on an Amish farm, the first book comes out in October!

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A Thoughtful Early Birthday Gift


I'm a lover of old books, poetry books, short story books, and illustrated books. My dear mother found these gems quite a while ago. They combine all of the above. And during my visit to my parents' house on Wednesday to give them their birthday presents (late) I got some of my birthday presents (early).

I haven't started reading them just yet. I think I shall make that a January activity as a break from writing (I'm over 70,000 words now) to give my mind a little distance from my story before I go back to the beginning and start the first round of revisions. I'll take time in the infancy of the year 2012 to read words printed on a page nearly 130 years ago. I'll make a pot of tea and sip from the kind of tea cup the original reader (a nun named Sister Mary according to inscriptions in two of the books) may have used as she sat in her room and indulged in a little Wordsworth. Or perhaps nuns, even in the Victorian age, did not use fancy cups. But I will.

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Review - My (not so) Storybook Life

Last month I received with eager hands a book I had preordered by a lovely woman and fellow blogger (at Mabel's House) Liz Owen. My (not so) Storybook Life is part memoir, part fiction, part satire, and completely worth the $20 spent on it. Through its hilarious and heart-wrenching pages, Liz introduces us to her slightly twisted mind, her completely twisted dog, and a beautiful, all-too-short friendship with an amazing young woman named Angela.

Each chapter begins with Liz's own inspired rewriting of our favorite stories. Anne and Gilbert, Rhett and Scarlett, Catherine and Heathcliff . . . no one is safe as Liz plunges the storybook characters that shaped her perceptions about life, love, and proper housing into the nitty gritty of real-life home ownership. Then she tells amusing and sometimes laugh-out-loud stories about her own experience as a newlywed first-time home (and schnauzer) buyer. And throughout the whole book we see the development of a strong friendship that only God could have orchestrated.

As I read, I marveled at the similarities between Liz and me. Roofing catastrophes, an unhealthy obsession with getting the right paint colors, husbands who sometimes talk in their sleep, a desire to write, and a love of literature that shaped our expectations of life to be perhaps just a smidge too high. And though the trajectory of the story moves ever closer to sadness as Liz deals with the impending loss of a dear friend to cancer, it does not get bogged down in sentimentality or emotional manipulation. In fact, the funniest chapter (at least, the one I laughed loudest at) is 12th of 14. I can't resist giving you a little taste of it here. The context is poor Liz finding out that her husband Matt does more than just talk in his sleep sometimes.

My first encounter with "sleeping with the enemy" happened several months later. I awoke suddenly in the middle of the night, one eye wide and unblinking into the darkness of our bedroom. But after a few moments of complete confusion and disorientation, I realized my right eye was wide and unblinking because Matt was leaning over me, peeling my eyelid back with his finger, his other finger poking my eyeball like a demented ophthalmologist.

I screamed. And then I punched him in the jaw.

This goes on for another page and other amusing nocturnal tortures follow. And Liz divulges them with a good dose of humor tempered with righteous indignation. But at the same time, this is the darkest chapter as well as we see Angela deteriorating and Liz questioning the meaning of all of it. It is the finest example of Liz's enviable ability to walk the fine line between comedy and tragedy. As our lives are made up of both, often occurring at nearly the same time, so Liz allows her own story to be a tense mingling of joy and sorrow.

Anyone who has a deep love for literature, who has had the horrifying thrill of buying a home, who has had a friendship that changed her life, who has lost someone to cancer, or who loves the memoir genre (as I do) would enjoy My (not so) Storybook Life. I hope someday I randomly run into Liz. She is truly a wonderful writer and a sweet person.

Buy the book. Read her blog. You won't be disappointed.

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The Literary Mystique (12/3/2008)

There was a very funny scene in an old Seinfeld episode (I guess they're all old now) wherein George was upset that he had left his books in the apartment of a woman he was no longer seeing and he wanted them back. Jerry asks, "What is it with people and books? . . . Why do you need it after you read it?"

What is it about books that we cherish so? Even books that we don't have any intention of reading again—or that we say we will read again but know deep down we will never get to—fill shelves in our homes. We move them from place to place; we box them up to lug them across the state or the country when we move, we move them from room to room when we need to make room for a piece of furniture. We rearrange them. We shelve them by subject, author, title. In one of my more brilliant moments (I think) I shelved all my novels from college in chronological order of when they were written, with each continent (where the writer was from) on a different shelf. That felt so right, so satisfying. (Side note, I claimed all the expatriates as American despite the fact that they lived and wrote in Europe. And I claimed T. S. Eliot, too.)

When my husband and I moved from Grand Rapids to Lansing we had 40-50 boxes of books to move. Some were for his office, some were from college, some were for fun, some we'd had since we were children. Before we moved we got rid of a few things, but no books were left behind. When the movers estimated the price of the move they apparently didn't understand that books are very heavy en masse because, though told that the imposing wall of boxes was all books, the estimator grossly misjudged the weight. And though each trip to Lansing before the move we loaded the car up with books until it sat mere inches from the highway speeding away underneath, we were still over the weight limit for the truck when we moved. They had to get an additional truck and throw a few things in it to be "legal" on the road (which of course took a couple hours) and we ended up moving in around 10pm at night.

Why go through so much trouble and expense for books? Why do we love them so?

When I was pregnant two of my baby showers featured books. At one people brought and signed board books rather than cards and the other was simply a book shower—all the gifts were books. I was so excited to get so many books for my little guy. And I still can't stop buying them. Just Monday night I bought another picture book that is much too old for him, but I couldn't help myself. I want our son to love books as much as his parents.

Because I love books I want to share them with others. Just like when I see a movie I know someone will love, when I read a book that is perfect for a friend, I loan it out. And I do expect to get these loaners back—especially since with non-fiction books I'm a highlighter and note-taker. Three of my books are currently MIA: Birth: The Surprising History of How We Are Born (which I loaned to my mother-in-law and which I think is now being held hostage by one of her coworkers), Confederates in the Attic (which I saw on the shelf at my in-laws' house at Thanksgiving, bookmarked about 1/3 of the way through), and If You Want to Write (which I loaned to a member of my writing group only to find out later that she is terrible at returning things and I may never see it again). [2011 Update: I rebought the birth book, got Confederates in the Attic back, and still haven't seen the writing book.]

But the art of retrieving your books is complicated. Like George indicated, I can't just go up to someone and demand my books back and I can't break into someone's house and just pull my book off their shelf or out of some stack of papers and junk mail it's been lost in. I did take a book back from my parents' house once and they have never asked me where it went so I'm sure they didn't remember they even had it.

But I don't want to ask for a book back before the loanee has had a chance to read it because I want them to read it—that's why I loaned it out in the first place. Plus, if I was the loan initiator and the book hasn't been read yet, I can't expect the loanee to be immediately as excited about the book. It may take them time to get around to reading it—after all, they didn't even ask for it. And in at least one case, I also have a book on my shelf from one of these people that I haven't gotten to yet. So everyone should get a little bit of grace.

Regardless of the situation though, I do eventually want my books back. Why? In the cases mentioned above, I really do intend to read them again. But even if I didn't, I know I'd still want them back. Books are a part of my identity (and if you're still reading this blog right now, I suspect they are part of yours as well). Books on the shelf in someone's home (like CDs in their car and DVDs in their entertainment center) help you get to know them better. What sorts of books do they like to read? What have they read? What common ground do we have? Do they like this author as much as I do? Will they get it if I refer to this character or recite this line? How do they treat their books? All of these things can help us know one another more.

In our increasingly digital age, where iPod playlists are hidden and the websites someone visits are not in plain sight I think we may be missing out on some interesting ways to get to know one another. We rarely visit one another at someone's home, instead meeting at coffee shops because our houses are messy or we just don't want to take the time to get "stuck" at someone's house. How much better could we know one another if we could see the physical evidence of what interests us?

Books are part of me and my family. Though when I was growing up my love of books was an anomaly (dad read the paper, mom read price tags, and my sister read teen magazines--though now they are all readers in the more traditional sense). Somehow I ended up a little library nerd from the very beginning, and I'm glad I did. I have been more places, lived in more times, loved and lost more people (and pets!), found more murderers, discovered more treasure, and mused about more things as a character in a book than I could in ten lifetimes.

So what is it about books? Why do we need them after we read them? Because they are part of our personal history. They are like photo albums. If I take and keep pictures of significant vacations or trips or events, of course I am going to keep the record of my adventure as a rabbit in the English countryside (Watership Down) or my family's travels across the harsh American frontier (the Little House series) or that summer I spent in Spain (The Sun Also Rises). It's all part of my inner life, my personal history.

So tell me (please!) what books you will never part with. Comment (no need to sign up for anything) and share your favorite stories with me!

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Literary Blog Revamp

Every so often a blog needs a facelift. I've revamped The Books I Should Have Read so it is easier to read and better formatted for wide screens. Please take a gander at it and read some of the newest entries. I'd love to hear your comments on the new design. And if you enjoy reading books, I invite you to follow it. I only post once or twice a month on my literary blog, as it takes me so long to get through books lately. So many other things going on. But if you're looking for reviews of all those books you should have read in high school and college, that's what that blog is all about. Hope you enjoy it!

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A Real Pioneer Woman

Just a quick note to point you to my literary blog The Books I Should Have Read to find out about a fascinating book called Letters from a Woman Homesteader.

It is fantastic and, if you have a Kindle, it's free. Definitely one of the most engaging books I've read this year.

Read all about it here! And then get a copy.

Once you read the first letter, if you're anything like me, you will be hooked. And as you read the rest of the letters you will be inspired by this woman's courage, flexibility, wit, and her ability to tell great stories.

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Reading Children's Verse


I do love children's books. Even before my husband and I considered creating a smaller version of ourselves we had a large and growing collection of children's books, including those from our own childhood and new ones we had purchased simply for the love of the artwork or stories. And lately I've been looking for vintage and antique books of children's stories and especially children's verse to add to our collection of picture books and chapter books.


As a child I enjoyed reading the verses and stories in two of my parents' college texts. Both of my parents majored in education in college, but when they graduated teaching jobs were scarce and they never did teach. But they both kept their anthologies of children's verse. I'm so glad they did. I spent many, many hours flipping through nursery rhymes, morality tales, and nonsense verse of many lands.


One of the most wonderful things about old books of children's verse are the charming illustrations. Many are so very enchanting that they stick with a child far more tenaciously than the verse or story. One illustrator whose pictures I remember from my father's treasury of children's verse happens to be Kate Greenaway whose work was extremely popular in the 1880s and 1890s.


I ran into a book of hers at an antique shop this winter, not knowing that I knew and enjoyed some of her other work as a young girl. The verse often leaves something to be desired but the illustrations make you feel the soft spring breeze and hear the rustling of dresses and wind through the trees. It wasn't until I was flipping through my father's old textbook that I realized many of her poems and pictures were part of my childhood.


Another recent find (the same day, in fact, as the Greenaway book) was a thin volume by Walter de la Mare called A Child's Day.


The whole book is one long poem about a little girl named Elizabeth Ann who does things any child would do: gets up, eats breakfast, plays outside, gets into mischief, takes a bath, etc. Not only are the illustrations utterly lovely . . .


. . . the poetry is actually really good despite being made up of rhyming couplets (which can sort of feel plodding after a while). Every other page contains a few lines of some of the most quotable poetry I've read in a while. De la Mare truly captures the feeling of wonder and possibility and simplicity that we feel as children and long to recapture in our adult existence.


But not all the children's stories of the past are charming and sweet. Many of them are bizarre, confusing, or downright frightening. I haven't read the story that goes with this next illustration, but the caption is hilarious.


This may be just a silly story, but other stories could keep you up at night as a little girl or little boy. Even the ones we've sanitized and made less scary become more sinister with the right illustrator. The story of Red Riding Hood is actually pretty gruesome (as were many of the tales we make cutesy movies of today). To people in earlier times, the woods and the creatures in it (wolves) were not simply scary because they were shadowy and dangerous, they were physical representations of evil. This illustration does not capture that:


This one certainly does.

*shudder*

Today, of course, we don't believe wolves or snakes or creepy crawly things are inherently evil (or at least I don't) and we don't teach our children that demonic forces are at work in the woods. But the story of Little Red Riding Hood is still seriously scary. Modern retellings might even omit the part about the wolf eating the grandmother.

We ended up with a modern Weeble Wobble version of Goldilocks and the Three Bears that came with a toy I got for my son at a garage sale. In this version, the bowls are filled with mac and cheese (c'mon, who eats porridge these days?) and Goldilocks doesn't break any chairs and when the bears come home they aren't angry at all. Instead they invite someone who invaded their home and stole from them to come have more mac and cheese with them, smiles all around. Needless to say, we didn't read this sanitized version to our son and the book has "disappeared" somewhere (like the trash can).

Some of these scary fairy tales we will eventually tell our son. They generally teach good lessons (don't steal, respect others, don't take candy from a creepy old crone in the woods, etc.) and they are a foundation of learning to love literature. But for now we'll skip any scary stories and focus on the fun stuff. Maybe tonight, in addition to his books about cars and trucks, I'll read a little bit of verse from the books I cherished as a small child.

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