by Daney

I’ve never encountered a fiction writer I considered excellent at both the novel and short story forms. Peter Taylor’s short stories are excellent, his novels not so much. Anyone who knows me is tired of my effusions about Faulkner’s novels but have you ever heard me rave about any of his short stories?

Here’s another example: I recently checked out Roxana Robinson’s “Asking for Love” from the library by mistake (I rarely read short stories). It was the last thing on my shelf so I plowed into it. The stories are exquisite!

So now I’m reading “This is My Daughter” and it’s drudgery. Is it just me?

by Daney

Who among the participants in this blog is not involved in some level in the ebooks vs. pbooks debate? Given the title of the blog, why would we be here if we didn’t care about books?

So do we just stand by while traditional publishers go under? Is there anything we can do?

To my surprise I find that I don’t have a knee-jerk aversion to ebooks and I know that some of you have Kindles, iPads and other devices. In my heavy travel days I expect that I would have, too. Yet I’m still passionate about reading “real” books.

Where do you come out? As usual, David Brooks has an unusual perspective http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/09/opinion/09brooks.html?th&emc=th.

by Daney

What are your all-time favorites? My top three are Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry, Sheila Bosworth’s Slow Poison and Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping. I know because they are the ones I turned to after my daughter died and I had to learn to read all over again.

At the top of the next tier is Tom Robbins’ Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. Can you imagine four more different books or writers? Do you get the sense that I have quirky taste??

As you name your favorites I’m sure I’ll remember others. And maybe as we read what others write we will be moved to start new conversation. I’m hoping!

by Daney

Valentine’s Day is probably my least favorite holiday although it’s clear I am in a distinct minority. For weeks beforehand the world is full of hearts and chocolate. There’s no relief from it even at the Church of the River where we always have a sermon about romantic love. Okay, okay. My son once informed me that if I were a jewel I would be jade. I accept that.

Today was different. The theme was Love & All That Jazz and Burton’s readings—all good—were punctuated by glorious music by Di Anne Price and Her Boyfriends with our own saxophonist Jim Spake and Tom Lonardo. Very unchurchy and thoroughly delightful.

My favorite reading was entitled “Hands Off: We Hatch Alone” by David Anderson. It’s from his book, Breakfast Epiphanies: Finding Wonder in the Everyday. I’ll be ordering it as soon as I post this.

by Daney

Okay, fair’s fair. I began this blog by whining about many of my favorite authors’ penchant for abandoning characters and styles of writing I grew to love in their early fiction. Barbara Kingsolver is one I didn’t mention. In my opinion, she’s never matched the genius of Pigs in Heaven.

Until recently, that is. One Saturday morning I arrived at the Benjamin Hooks Central Library just as the doors opened, which meant there was a chance I would find something on the 7-day shelf that I would want to read.

Indeed I did. There was a copy of The Lacuna and I didn’t even know Ms. K had a new book out. It felt like what my Cajun friends would call lagniappe. When I realized how enchanting the book is, how much I love the plot, characters, everything about it, it felt even more so. The book is back at the library now but I’m quite sure I’ll succumb to the urge to purchase my own copy. It belongs on my “keeper” shelf, right next to Pigs in Heaven.

by Daney

Okay, who’s had this experience–you read a book, fall in love with it and wait eagerly for the author’s next one. For Marilynne Robinson we waited, what, about 20 years? And Gilead could not be more different from Housekeeping. Equally brilliant, no doubt, but the emotional tone was worlds and worlds apart.

Then there’s Ann Patchett. It’s hard to believe that the writer of The Magician’s Assistant followed up with Bel Canto and Run. And don’t even get me started on Anne Tyler and Joyce Carol Oates.

I must reluctantly conclude that the authors I love write the books they are moved to write with no regard for the fact that I’m out here waiting for an encore. As a writer I intend to do the same thing but there’s still this lingering sense of disappointment. Whatever happened to Ruth and Sabine? Just saying…