#62 – Calling Out For You!

When I was babbling on about all of the Scandinavian mysteries I’ve been reading lately, Melanie, over at Indextrious Reader, tweeted about her favourite, Karin Fossum. So I scanned my shelves and happily discovered I had an Inspector Sejer mystery, Calling Out For You! at the ready. I might as well call this my Mystery Christmas for all novels in this genre I’ve been reading, and I’m pleased that I can cross Norway off my Around the World in 52 Books challenge with Fossum as well, and the translation by Charlotte Barslund is one of the better that I’ve read — far less clunky than all of The Girl With novels and, on the whole, Fossum’s a much more skillful novelist than Camilla Lackberg.

Calling Out For You! (the exclamation point seems a bit, well, tedious) finds Inspector Sejer solving a heinous crime involving the brutal murder of an Indian woman, the newlywed wife of a middle-aged farm equipment salesmen who was truly looking forward to welcoming his wife to his country, his home. Gunder Jomann, quiet, reserved, lonely, takes the biggest risk of his entire life and simply decides to go to India. Upon his return, the very day his new wife Poona was set to arrive, his only sister ends up in a terrible car accident and he can’t collect her from the airport. Tragedy ensues — Poona doesn’t arrive. Instead, she’s found bludgeoned to death in a field outside of town.

Fossum’s careful not to lead you entirely in the right or wrong direction. There’s a mystery to the mystery — who actually killed Poona and why — that’s inferred but not entirely delineated by the end of the novel. It’s a character-driven book, you feel emotionally connected to the Gunder, the distraught, decent man who ultimately suffers unspeakable tragedy. And the detective work is straightforward, simple, to the point. There isn’t the driving plot that you’d find in the The Girl With books, but that’s okay, there’s a decency to Fossum’s characters that’s very real. Setting doesn’t play as an important part in this book the other mysteries I’ve read by authors from this part of the world (that was the only thing I truly enjoyed about The Ice Princess). But you get the small-town, everyone-knows-everyone, feeling throughout the novel, which always contributes to the shocking nature of the crime.

I flew through this novel, primarily because I truly, honestly wanted to know who did it — and it was VERY hard not to cheat. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve read the last page of the book sometimes even before the first and it’s an especially hard habit to break with mysteries. I don’t want to spoil it but then I absolutely just have to know. In this case, I managed to be patient, but mainly because it was such an easy read, and didn’t take too long to get to the end. Any longer and I wouldn’t have been able to stand it.

READING CHALLENGES: Around the World in 52 Books and The Off The Shelf Challenge. Two birds with one book, yet again.

WHAT’S UP NEXT: I can’t decide: AS Byatt or Dennis Lehane. I suppose it’ll be up to what concentration levels I can manage this evening upon retiring for the long, long night as the RRBB eats, sleeps, eats, sleeps, eats, sleeps.

#61 – Affinity

In a lot of ways, I am neither here nor there with Sarah Waters. By that I mean, I either really love her books, like Fingersmith and The Night Watch or I really, really don’t like them at all like Tipping the Velvet and the incredibly boring (by my estimation only) The Little Stranger, which honestly put me to sleep more than scared the bejeezus out of me, as was probably intended. So, I’ve had Affinity languishing on my shelves for years. And, at first, I thought it was going to go the way of The Little Stranger, but I actually ended up quite enjoying the novel.

Set in the 1870s in London at the height of the spiritualist craze, the novel’s protagonist, Margaret, falls head over heals for an inmate at Millbank prison. Selina’s an infamous spiritualist who finds herself in hot water after her patron dies unexpectedly following a fairly intense visit from “beyond.” Being the cynic that I am, of course, you know that Margaret’s being swindled, but it’s a long con, and a devastating one when you look at the novel in terms of options for women, single women, of her class, stature and sexual orientation. So, the harder Margaret falls for Selina, and her impressive parlour tricks, the more you, the reader, realize that it’s all going to turn out very, very poorly for the trusting, intelligent, yet wholly gullible girl.

Devastated by the loss of her beloved father, Margaret’s an easy target. Set adrift by lack of options, she will neither marry but nor does she want to spend the rest of her life caring for her demanding, controlling and often obnoxious mother. She sees her mother growing older and more demanding, can’t bear a life of calling cards and visits, and longs to visit Italy. But the upper middle classes aren’t the place for women to go travelling alone, and without a sustainable relationship, Margaret’s trapped in her drafty house with only her diary, and her visits to Millbank prison, to keep her sane.

The novel speeds along and the format suits the subject matter impressively. Interspersed with Margaret’s own journal/diary entries, you get more and more backstory from Selina. Are her psychic powers authentic? Can she truly call upon the spirits to come? Or is it all just a ruse? Waters is careful to parcel out the truth and the tricks throughout the narrative in a way that intends to keep one guessing but it’s fairly obvious early on what’s going to happen. Knowing that Margaret’s being duped didn’t lessen the impact of the novel but increases the emotional quotient — you are that much more involved when it gets to the end.

All in all, I am glad I stuck with Affinity through the wee hours. I almost abandoned it halfway through and picked up AS Byatt’s latest book, which I am starting this evening. And, it cleared yet another book off my shelves!

Notes From A House Frau IV

Here is baby’s first outing to the rink. Yes, the hockey rink. We watched our nephew participate in some faux-Olympics to celebrate the end of his skating lessons and it was just about the cutest thing ever. So much to look forward to, right? RRBB slept through the entire thing, like he does with so much of his life. The odd irony (is it ironic?) of early parenting, how much the baby sleeps vs how little the parents do, his life is so restful when he’s not screaming.

The strange obsessive need to clean up and out continues. I know it’s a product of the prednisone crazies, and I know it’s from being inside the house so much, I just can’t stop thinking about how much more I can tidy up and move around. Of course, most of it is just heading into the basement, but that’s the last stop before it’s out of the house forever. I can barely believe that Christmas is just about ten days away, and that next Friday is Christmas Eve. I know where the time has gone, and seeing the beautiful snow today made me realize that it is really winter in Toronto. One thing I am grateful for right now: not having to commute everyday downtown. One thing I am not grateful for: it’s not as easy to get out of the house with the baby for a walk. And fresh air is so important to just being able to keep going.

Tomorrow is a day of reckoning. I went in for some blood work this morning, and I hope it is better tomorrow. I hope with every fibre of my being that I can stay on my current drug regimen, which means we can keep breastfeeding. There’s little choice with my life, literally, on the line, I’ve been thinking positively, maybe even fooling myself, but trying not to freak out completely at how the disease just refuses to go back into remission.

We’ve had a couple of peaceful days at home. So, I’ve spent a lot of time just feeding and sleeping with the baby. I’ve been enacting, purposefully, a measure of calmness, not watching television during the day (and not missing it at all — if you knew me, this would shock you), reading, writing, making lists, obsessively clearing out stuff, it’s all just a rouse to keep my head on straight as I battle the terrifying Wegener’s for the umpteenth time. It’s an interesting dynamic: raising a new life while trying to hold on to my own. There’s so much potential with the RRBB and I feel mine evaporating with every pill I need to keep my alive. I feel dramatic, maybe melodramatic, but I can’t just think of myself and the disease anymore. I have to think of my family and how it affects all of us — husband, son. I often get carried away in just trying to get through the day-to-day with the disease, the exhaustion, the symptoms, the terrifying test results, that I forget that my RRHB has to deal with the disease as much as I do, but in a very different way — he has to be supportive, kind, understanding, even when he’s going through stuff of his own. That would be hard for any lesser person. I am lucky to have someone who gives so much and takes such good care of me, there would be no me without him.

Generally, I meet the disease, and its flares, with a great depression. With anger, rage and a healthy dose of denial, and the disease keeps coming back. I put myself through incredible amounts of stress, which I’m convinced has a lot to do with the Wegener’s doing what it does. But in this case, it wasn’t my life necessarily, it wasn’t my job, it wasn’t a horrible tragedy, it was something I was really looking forward to — having a baby, and so I can’t be angry, it won’t do either of us any good. I can be sad, and cry, it’s healthy, but the anger doesn’t do anyone any good. Neither does the resignation. I remember being in my mid-20s, almost flunking out of grad school, looking up horrible pictures of collapsed sinuses, and deciding that if the disease wanted to have me, it could take me. I no longer feel that way. But I do just want it all to stop now. I’m tired and need a rest.

#60 – A Long Long Way

Sebastian Barry’s A Long Long Way surprised me, and that’s not easy to do. Yesterday, I had plucked it and Sarah Waters’s Affinity off my shelves to start reading upon finishing up the Mo Hayder. I don’t know why I chose one over the other — except the beginning passages of Barry’s novel reminded me in a way of A Star Called Henry, and once I started, I couldn’t put the book down until I was weeping at the end.

Willie Dunne, the son of a police commander in Dublin, hasn’t grown tall enough (you must be six feet) by his teenage years to join the constabulary so, instead, he joins the army at the very beginning of the First World War. Willie and his three sisters live in the Police Castle with their father, their mother having passed away in childbirth years before. The Dublin before the war is a very different Dublin during the war and even more so once the war is over. Home Rule becomes an issue, and the Irish soldiers fighting for freedom, country and King, go from heroes to villains in one fell swoop. And while Willie is far away from the politics invading his country, his life, his identity, stuck in the mud at the Somme, breathing in mustard gas at Ypres, and seeing death and destruction all around, the very nature of the issues are never far away either.

Barry, from what I can gather from his short bio at the beginning of the novel, is a playwright, and often you can sense this throughout. The dialogue and characters are so very well developed, so pristine in their environment, that you know there’s been a sure hand in their creation. But, often, much of what sits outside the characters and their dialogue, and this is a rare criticism for I enjoyed this novel very much, feels like stage direction — a lot of repetitive details, re-used observations, and a little bit too much of a dependence on heavy metaphors.

Yet, you can’t help but have your heart on your sleeve when reading Willie Dunne’s story. He has tender feelings for Gretta, a girl whose father was injured by Willie’s dad himself during a particular uprising; and this love keeps him alive as he sits covered in lice, grime and his own piss at the bottom of a trench. The horrors of the First World War have been fictionalized by Canadian writers so exceptionally over the course of our literary history. The horses sinking into the mud in The Wars, the morphine-addicted character in Three Day Road; the First World War defined Canada as a nation, we were exhalted for our bravery, we held positions, and this is how I’m used to reading the events. Yet, Barry has an entirely different perspective — Willie’s split in two. He’s on furlough when Easter 1916 happens, and he sees the violence in a way that changes his mind about how or why he should be fighting. But it’s so easy to be political when you’re not the one in the trench, in a way, when you’re the one throwing the rocks and refusing to go, abandoning the boys that went — but those boys are still suffering, barraged by mortars and attacked at every corner by the enemy, their lives are not their own, but they must own their actions.

And when Willie is left for his second furlough, and aspects of his homecoming are inevitably difficult, your heart breaks for him. Nothing has stayed the same in Dublin during the time he’s been at war, but he needs the stability, and needs to come home. What happens to a man no, rather, a boy born into his manhood by seeing and participating in unspeakable horror, who can’t go home again? It’s fitting when he arrives upon his doorstep that his youngest sister doesn’t recognize him, and when everything he hoped to come back to falls apart, Willie still does the honourable thing — he goes and visits the family of his fallen Captain, a man he respected because he held the line during the first instances of the gas when everyone else, rightfully, fled to save their lives.

There’s a cast of motley characters that survive alongside our hero. My favourite, Christy Moran, the second in command, a brash, ballsy, opinionated brave fellow who hands away a medal as easily as he would share a ration, manages to add a lightness to many situations. There’s the usual stereotyping of the Irish by the brass — and by some of the other soldiers — but the perspective on this war, the sacrifices that these boys made, and how it all changed because of what was happening at home, well, I’ve never read anything like it. While Henry Smart was holed up in the Post Office in A Star Called Henry, Willie Dunne was holed up in a trench in France and Belgium. They come from different places but they represent two very distinct aspects of Irish history, and Barry, alongside Roddy Doyle, creates an interesting, almost bookended reading experience should one choose to tackle the two novels together.

In the end, I wept, and wept, and there was more than one moment where I put my hand over my heart and held tight to my baby. This is not a post-partum emotional reader talking — this is the result of a powerful story wrapped in a wonderful character. In the end, I was very sad to see his story close.

READING CHALLENGES: The Off the Shelf Challenge of course, and as Barry is Irish, I’m counting A Long Long Way for Around the World in 52 Days. Over the last couple weeks, I think I’ve managed to get through about 10 books from my shelves. There are hundreds more to go but I doubt I’ll make my annual reading goal of 100 books. Simply too much went on this year. I think, too, I’ll forgo my annual top 10 books list as well — I’m just going to keep plowing through titles in the wee hours of the morning and actually enjoy the fact that our baby still wakes up a couple of times in the night to give me those stolen moments when everything is so quiet and my mind can wander over words, imagination, and impressive stories I don’t expect to enjoy as much as I do.

#59 – Birdman

Mo Hayder remains one of my favourite crime writers. I had the good fortune to interview her a couple of years ago when she was in Toronto promoting the Walking Man series, still Jack Caffrey mysteries, but with the introduction of Flea Marley, the police diver, who becomes the other central character in the books. She’s self-educated, incredibly smart, and it was one of the best interviews I had ever done (and she was very gracious when she signed my book).

Annnywaaay, I’ve had Birdman, the first Jack Caffrey mystery, on my shelf for about four years. Every time I look through my books to see what I should pick up next, I think, I should really read that Mo Hayder novel. I guess, with everything, and with my own superstitious nature about reading (books are ready for you at the right time in your life and never before… that’s why you can’t finish them if you start and put them down again , and why it took me at least seven tries to get through Crime and Punishment; it just wasn’t the right time), it languished. There were always other books to read first. But I had just finished The Post-Birthday World and wanted something that I could read in a day — and grabbed Birdman on a whim.

I don’t know what it is about motherhood that inspires me to want to watch and read about murder and mayhem. I’ve been only keeping up with shows like Law and Order UK, Detroit 1-8-7, and watching the boxed set of Prime Suspect. My friend Duncan suggested it’s because crime novels are easy to pick up and put down. You feel like you’ve accomplished a little something when you get to the end of a police drama: there’s a mystery, it gets solved, people are punished. It’s all my overloaded, exhausted brain can handle. Well, he’s got a point. And maybe the escapism I used to get from watching movies, I’m finding in a good, solid, mystery/thriller here and there.

So, Birdman. It’s a fairly typical crime novel, of course, because it’s Mo Hayder, it’s extremely well written and utterly readable. It charges along at a fast clip and before you know it, Jack’s done it again: ruined another relationship, pissed off a whole bunch of people, and solved a heinous crime (in this case a lot of dead prostitutes/strippers/addicts) involving a serial killer (or killers). In a way, this novel is more structured than Hayder’s later books. I’m not sure if this is part of a series with anything more linking it than Caffrey as the main character because it’s all tied up very neatly at the end — that’s not to say it’s a happy conclusion — but there’s a finality to this book that the Walking Man novels don’t have. They all seem to pick up where the other left off in a deliciously addictive way.

Jack’s new to the force in London, and it’s his first big case. When they uncover the bodies of five women, all mutilated, all murdered, there’s conflict in the force. There are clues that lead a racist, repugnant DI Diamond in the wrong direction and Jack, along with his partner Essex, have to fight against the curve to get everyone working in the right direction. His profile is correct, and when we meet the villain about eight pages in, you get the feeling that it’s all coming together a bit too quickly, you know, like when the cops disappear too soon on Law and Order, and you know there’s trouble with the case…and low and behold, once the villain becomes known to the police, the killing doesn’t stop. So who is the real Birdman? Of course, it’s a race against time for Caffrey and Essex to figure it out because there are real people involved now — not just victims, but people with personal relationships to these officers.

Part of Vintage Canada’s World of Crime series, I love how the jacket copy says, “For some killers, murder is just the beginning…” It’s a pretty terrific tagline and utterly relevant to this particular book. I love it when there’s a twist that’s hinted, ever so slightly upon toward the beginning of the novel, and explodes at just the right time in the reading. Hayder’s exceptional at creating completely creepy villains who do absolutely disgusting things. Yet, the level of (for lack of a better word) “grossness” that Hayder employs in her writing is consistently balanced with razor-sharp prose, snappy dialogue and intense research. These novels are solid, have ripping plots (how else do you read them in a night while breastfeeding a baby?) and hinge upon a fascinating character that she’s created in Caffrey. I mean, he does remind me a little of Jackson Brodie — Kate Atkinson’s protagonist — they’re both damaged in a way that makes them so good at their job. In Caffrey’s case, it’s the disappearance of his younger brother when he was eight and the passionate way he’s convinced his next-door neighbour, whom he still lives beside, is responsible for his murder.

Unlucky in love seems to be the MO for these kind of men, which, of course, makes them irresistible on the page, both to the reader and to just about every woman in their path. But romance never works out for Jack and it’s a good thing too because how else would he solve the crime and save the day? I’d highly recommend any Mo Hayder novel for the crime/thriller lover. She’s such an exceptional writer that it’ll totally satisfy your craving for good sentences as much as your craving for, as my grandmother used to say, “a good whack on the head.”

READING CHALLENGES: The Off The Shelf Challenge, of course. I already have a British writer for my Around the World in 52 Weeks, so I can’t double count Hayder.

WHAT’S UP NEXT: I started Sebastian Barry’s A Long, Long Way this morning and it absolutely reminded me of one of my all-time favourite books, A Star Called Henry, and so I’m hoping to continue it this evening. Not too much time to read today as I was alone with the baby and we took an amazing nap this afternoon. How delicious is it to lie in bed with your baby tucked into your chest, and then wake up with him snuggled right into your arm all smiley and sleepy when you both wake up. Even if the moment only lasts for about five minutes before he wakes up fully and discovers he’s got shitty pants and is starving and, therefore, starts screaming, but it was a bit of bliss on a cold blustery day.

Notes From A House Frau III

RRBB trying out his chair for the first time. He lasted about 10 minutes before getting fussy. My lesson for this week? Appreciating stillness. I have been sitting in this same position, feeding, trying to get SOMEONE to sleep longer than 25 minutes and NOT on me, since noon. A lot of thoughts go through your head, especially when you’re by yourself, and there’s something about stillness, sitting, in one place, for so long that lets your mind wander and wonder.

A couple of friends from work came over yesterday. They brought beautiful presents for the baby. And I got to pass along some of the stuff RRBB has outgrown (he’s out of newborn sizes!) to one friend as she is due in January. It was good to see them, but it was even better to hear about work — it’s everyone’s dream to have time off, paid (albeit the misery that is UI) from work — because I never thought I would miss it as much as I do. It’s not just the routine. The very get-up-and-go and the nature of having something to do each day where there are expectations on you to get there at a certain time and be a certain kind of productive. No, it’s something I realized about myself over the last little while. I am at a place in my career, and yes, I’m actually using that word now, where I truly, honestly and completely love my job. It’s fast-paced, I have great colleagues, and I was doing really interesting work. Work that got me excited and thrilled to go in to the office each day.

But it’s also a blessing to be able to stay home with the RRBB. It’s a different, much harder kind of job, with no fixed schedule and little breathing time, even when you do sit for hours. In the last few, I’ve been resenting the disease a lot, and I think it goes hand-in-hand with my resenting the doctors (as excellent as they are) for all telling me, repeatedly, since the beginning of my pregnancy, that everything would be fine. Funnily enough, everything was so far from fine it’s as if fine is the moon and I am the earth and there’s no hope in hell of us ever colonizing it for human life. Does that even make sense? Probably not, I’m sleep deprived and therefore metaphorically challenged.

All I know is that from the very moment the disease was diagnosed, it started taking things away from me. Dance, my appearance, my sanity at times (the prednisone crazies), and even when it gives something back — like our wonderful RRBB — it takes so much just to get here. My energy, my good health (I was so HEALTHY when I got pregnant; the healthiest I’d been in 15 years!), and now it’s still so angry that it’s even taken away all of the stuff I was looking forward to about having a baby in the first place: birth (don’t mock me; I wanted to experience it) because they didn’t want the stress on my body so up comes the epidural and then the pre-eclampsia put the kibosh on a natural delivery; and now it won’t even calm down long enough for me to feed the baby if I have to take stronger meds because all my levels are going in the wrong direction. It’s hard not to anthropomorphize the disease. To turn it into something separate from me — a Jeckyll to my Hyde (have I got them right?). The devil to my right-shouldered angel. Yet, the still teaches you things. It teaches you to reimagine all of this in a way that’s necessary. They have me on a higher dose of prednisone right now and I’m hoping that’ll kick-start the remission again. By Wednesday, I should know what they’ve all decided but I’ve decided somethings too.

1. I need to go back to restorative yoga.

2. I’m dying to get into a pool for a swim.

3. There are lots of people out there who love me and the RRBB a lot.

4. Blogging is a form of writing so it’s okay if it’s not the novel right now. I’m moving my fingers, forming sentences, and the rest will follow. I am willing to wade through the rejection. The book is worth it. It will eventually get published. I have to believe this, it was my one regret last year when I almost died the OTHER time, you remember, the whole appendix nightmare. All I kept thinking was: “I never published my book.”

5. Every day RRBB gets older, bigger and more experienced. And so do we as parents. These are not small steps.

6. We made it through three weeks in the hospital and more than one near-death experience. And now, weeks later, that seems like a world ago. Time heals. It’s cliched but true.

7. The stillness encourages patience. Patience is something that I could always use more of, and it’s something that only comes when you least expect it.

8. Books are wonderful and necessary to my life. They are worth losing sleep over.

9. Television, not so much.

10. When you come to visit me, please, always bring food — I can barely get dressed in the mornings I’m so exhausted. Having a meal, a snack, a drink, anything, means so much. I can’t even tell you.

That’s all from the House Frau today. No tears.

Oh, and the baby has started smiling. We’ve tried to catch it on the camera but he’s like Snuffle-smile-agus, every time he does it the camera’s either just missed it or he won’t do it again. Sneaky RRBB.

#58 – The Post-Birthday World

The Post-Birthday World, like many of Lionel Shriver’s novels, manages to defy the reader’s expectations both in its construction and its central thesis — that a life can change drastically based upon one split-second decision. This is no rom-com, and while it might feel like Sliding Doors, there’s little beyond the premise, that to act or not to act (and in Shriver’s novel, it’s very much an action that splits the protagonist’s life into two distinct futures vs. happenstance, Gwyneth missing the tube or not missing the tube), in that one moment can change your life forever.

Irina Galina McGovern, children’s book illustrator and common-law wife of Lawrence, both American ex-patriots living in London, against her better judgment, goes for a birthday dinner with the infamous, rakish, handsome professional snooker player, Ramsay. Lawrence is away on business. They have a standing birthday dinner date — but it used to be a couple’s thing. Ramsay’s wife, Jude, was a collaborator of Irina’s, and when their marriage fell apart, it fell to Lawrence and Irina to entertain Ramsay (who’d always pick up the cheque) on his birthday.

The story splits into two over a kiss: something much more than a birthday peck on the cheek, a knee-shaking, earth-shattering, fall-in-love-on-a-street-corner kind of kiss, that will determine two very different futures for our Irina. If she kisses Ramsay, she says good-bye to her lovely life with Lawrence; if she doesn’t kiss him, she would be denying herself the chance to feel passionate love, one that involves great, great sex.

As each chapter vacillates between the two realities, each relationship breaks down and apart for different reasons. Love becomes deconstructed through the everyday reality of what it means to make a choice to be with someone. Irina’s not a woman who can live without a man yet she isn’t an anti-feminist character — she’s someone who has always prized life with someone above life on her own. Her past butts up against her future in various places throughout the novel: a self-obsessed Russian dancer of a mother; a life that she left behind in the States; the need to assimilate in some ways to her new life in London.

In a way, Irina is always in relation to something, to someone — whether it’s her art (and the forward momentum of her career) or the two men in her life. The chapters that deal with her life with Lawrence, are deemed “safe” — he works for a think tank, is intelligent, but he’s also controlling in strange and obstinate ways, turning his moral eye upon a drink in the afternoon, calling her a “moron” every now and again. And it’s a relationship without passion. For years, Lawrence hasn’t kissed her, I mean, really kissed her, and Irina misses this desperately. When she asks if they can’t get married, his utterly crushing response is, “okay.”

Her relationship, and subsequent marriage to Ramsay, is the polar opposite, even when it runs along the same time line — Shriver is careful to keep the details just the same so the book does veer off and the reader gets lost but she also makes the two storylines distinct enough that you truly get a sense of how disparate Irina’s life becomes from that fateful moment — it’s passionate, vibrant, even violent (with wicked fights; not fists), and full of absolutely fantastic sex and happy moments (when the two aren’t battling).

Two sides of the same coin, Irina remains the same person, the same character, but the subtle changes in her that you see when she’s with either man bring her sharply into focus throughout the novel. Success means different things in either of her worlds and aspects of her personality get lost in either relationship. Shriver is keen to point out that love is sometimes separate from sex and other times as tangled as your bodies get. She writes of mature, intelligent, adult relationships — and she’s the only author with her sort of aesthetic, her brutal honesty, her ability to make things palatable even when you dislike so many of the characters and their decisions, but still keep you utterly engaged as a writer. Irina is flawed, deeply, and you are the more interested to read each chapter for this reason.

There’s no doubt in my mind that Shriver is one of my favourite working novelists. I adored So Much For That, especially in light of my own health issues, and the very essence of her writing always boils down to one thing for me — if we can harken back to my second-year university course on existentialism — Shriver writes so very convincingly of the human condition that I would challenge anyone to find a contemporary writer better. It seems she tackles an issue with each of her books, plants it solidly in a plot that would seem tepid to a lesser novelist, and while the themes might be love, relationships, sex and marriage, you know instantly that you aren’t reading the Jennifer Weiner or Jodi Picoult versions of reality. There’s depth and heft to Shriver’s sharp intellect and the piercing nature of her pen ensures that no characters comes out unscathed.

In the end, it’s up to the reader to imply, in a way, which was the right choice for Irina Galina to make, but the ending is just so satisfactory, and being a woman, I know what kind of relationship I’d prefer, but I don’t want to spoil it — it’s actually worth getting through the 500-odd pages. And it’s not often someone in my particular situation would have the patience to read a) a book this long and b) be willing to give up precious bits of sleep (like the hours between the feeding at 3 AM and the 6 AM feeding; it wouldn’t have mattered, I’m on so much prednisone that sleep is hard to come by anyway, I’m no martyr, I’m just on meds) just to finish it.

READING CHALLENGES: The Off The Shelf Challenge. Yes, another one bites the dust or, rather, another book is banished to the magic box in the basement that every single guest coming into my home is forced to go through. My high school friends brought brunch over today and left with over 15 books between them. Go baby go! There will actually be space for dust to collect on my shelves by Christmas (if I have anything to say about it).

Notes From a House Frau II

Portrait of a Baby Whisperer baby, not. We tried the Baby Whisperer “EASY” program for two days and it made our RRBB the most miserable he’d ever been in his short life. He had two terrible nights, two awful days, and the program just didn’t work for us. I also made myself insane consulting the book and trying umpteen different things because I thought I needed to fix something that wasn’t broken. Anyway, we’re back to normal now, and back to our actual easy baby. Sleeping, eating, waking, and doing quite well at night. My lesson for the day, not every book has the solution, and you don’t need to listen to every one just because it’s written down. You can make yourself crazy trying to do the right thing if only to stop listening to your instincts, which aren’t always wrong, even if they are inexperienced.

I was at the kidney doctor this morning, and it broke my heart. The disease is going in the wrong direction — my tests are rising when they should be falling, and the meds aren’t controlling the Wegener’s in the way they were supposed to. I see my SFDD next week and they’ll probably suggest alternative treatment, which means no more breastfeeding. But to let things continue in this way means I’d be on dialysis in six months, and I can’t lose my kidneys.

It’s been so long of dealing with the disease, and being sad and frustrated is par for the course these last few weeks. I’m trying hard to find the life lessons. To see the silver lining in the cloud; to not get disparaged or angry or resentful of the disease and my broken body. Feeling scared has pervaded my days, I don’t want to get sicker, I want to get better, so desperately, but I also have to be patient. Funnily enough, the doctor today described my pregnancy as one of the hardest she’s ever seen. When I was in it, it was only rough for the last few weeks — for the most part, it went exceptionally well considering the circumstances, and all of that is how our beautiful RRBB managed to be so healthy by the time he landed in the world.

So, I’ve spent today being sad, frustrated, and upset — all in equal measure. Yet, there’s something about my family, my RRHB and my RRBB, that I find utterly delightful. Whether it’s how we spend the mornings, or how lovely the baby is at 2 AM when he’s just about to fall asleep, and if this is all I can do right now, be here, with my family, because that’s all I have energy for, that’s all the disease will allow, then I need to be calm and careful. Take it day by day and understand that I will get better, it’ll just take a long, long time. Yesterday, I did 10 sit ups. Today, I’m going to do 11. And that’s how I’m going to do it, one small change by one small change, take the new drugs, deal with the side effects, and find the strength to be the best house frau I can possibly be under the circumstances.

#57 – Little Bee

I am of mixed mind when it comes to Chris Cleave’s Little Bee. On the one hand, it’s an interesting novel that deals with important political issues; on the other hand, overall, I didn’t find the novel entirely plausible. Cleave has definite talent writing characters in voices that are atypical — female characters that read well, but there’s just something that rings false. I felt especially this way about Little Bee herself, that she was perhaps a bit too precocious for her age, but when you factor in what she’d been through (horrific, awful events in her home country of Nigeria; unspeakable violence and two years in a detention centre in England after stowing away in a boat), maybe it’s not so inconceivable that she would be wise beyond her years. Yet, it all didn’t sit quite right with me.

So, the plot of the novel revolves around two women, the aforementioned Little Bee, an asylum-seeking refugee from Nigeria who was subjected to an horrific experience of seeing her entire family destroyed by oil men; and Sarah, the wife of Andrew, a couple who met Little Bee on a beach on a fateful day that would change their lives forever. When Little Bee is finally released from the detention centre after spending two years essentially in jail as the British government evaluates her refugee claim, the only people she knows are Andrew and Sarah, and so she makes her way to them, which sets in motion a series of events that have tragic consequences.

And it’s not just the plot that felt forced but the relationship between the two women was awkward in many ways. I kept comparing the novel in my head to Dave Eggers’s What is the What, and to Lawrence Hill’s The Book of Negroes, both novels that have protagonists that go through unspeakable horrors, but both of these novels just pull it all together in a way that doesn’t make the reader feel as though the situations are jammed in just to make a point. Granted, it’s an important point — or an important book — and you can’t fault Cleave for his research or how hard he worked to create the voice of Little Bee. But how he chose to wrap her story within that of Sarah’s and how their lives are intertwined just doesn’t work. Further, there’s a fairytale element to the penultimate action that rang false and the end of the novel was quite flat compared to how hard he had worked to set up the situation from the start of the book. I didn’t believe the drama — and this book is ALL about dramatic situations that forever change people’s lives.

Overall, as much as I was looking forward to reading this book, I am not at all sure what I think or how I feel about it. I want to like it A LOT because I believe strongly in fiction that pushes the boundaries and tells important, political stories. But in a way, I don’t think they should be shoehorned in when they don’t fit the characters or the voice that’s actually telling the story. I wanted more for Little Bee — and I wanted more from the book. But maybe I’ll feel differently if/when I think about it some more.

Has anyone else read this book? What did you think?

WHAT’S UP NEXT: Lionel Shriver’s The Post-Birthday World. It’s a chunky, chunky book so I probably won’t finish it in a day but we’ll see how many hours my RRBB spends awake tonight.

READING CHALLENGES: The Off the Shelf Challenge — I think I’ve had this book on my TBR pile ever since it came out almost two years ago. Also, Chris Cleave is British, so that counts too for Around the World in 52 Books — he can be England.

Notes From A House Frau I

Something strange has happened to me now that I am spending so much time at home. I just want to get rid of stuff. Like, all kinds of stuff. I want to clear up, clean out, and reboot. Maybe that’s what happens when you have a near-death experience. You simply want to take all the crap out of your life and symbolically take all the crap out of your system too. It’s been a short weekend to a long week — not a lot of visitors this week, which was good. I really needed to rest, but I am also starting to get bored of being in the house all the time, which isn’t surprising. The other day, we walked to the Dufferin Mall and that was actually my favourite walk of the week. Not because we were in a mall but because we had great conversations along the way and my RRHB made me laugh. In fact, the two of us being at home so much has brought out a lot of patience and heightened sense of humour. There’s a comraderie between us when it comes to the RRBB — there’s patience and understanding, the odd sharp word or misconstrued tone/meaning, but for the most part, it’s been really terrific to have this time together.

Anyway, that’s not the purpose of Notes From a House Frau. I’m trying to find ways of fitting my own life back into this new life we have created. Whether it’s getting a closet back in order or finding a moment to write a new opening sentence to my novel (it was recently rejected by not one but two agents; I’m not giving up — both of their feedback was excellent but I can’t say I’m not disappointed). There has to be a way to balance what I want out of life, all of the things I had planned pre-RRBB and what I know I need to provide for him. Tips, tricks from experienced mom/writers out there?

On the whole, I haven’t found a good moment or a good writing routine yet. Colour me silly for imagining that would be the easiest part of mat leave — that the baby would have to nap sometimes and I’d be all awake and intense and ready to go. Writing for me is an amazingly slow process. I mean, I write quickly, but it takes me a long time to get what I write, well, right. I know the problems with my book and how to fix them, now I just need to find the right house frau routine to work that in with the other more intense things I’d like to do in a day.

It’s amazing how just accomplishing one or two things from your to do list makes you feel like a regular person despite the muddy, foggy loss of true distinction between night and day. Right now baby has those mixed up and therefore so do I — I take my iPad to bed and get email finished at 3 AM. I’ve got a whole whack of projects, knitting projects, getting out my mum’s sewing machine and sharing my writing desk with it, clearing out all kinds of crap I’ve been carrying around for decades. I mean, I don’t need my Nancy Drew books. I’ll never re-read them and RRBB won’t either — as it’s a well known fact in my industry that girls will read boys books but boys won’t do the same, so out they go (to a very good home and a very lovely girl, mind you).

The disease has taken its toll on me in so many ways. At the height of the baby’s fussiness, I sent an email to a friend stating, “How did you do two, TWO!” and she wrote back, “How have you almost died X number of times and survived!” It’s all a matter of perspective. Right now, my world consists of very little sleep, a lot of words bashing around my head, plenty of unread Globe and Mails, and entire bookshelves full of titles I am going to work my way through. I’ve gotten my reading back or, rather, I’ve managed to fit that back into my life, now I just need to find a nook and a cranny for the writing because if I don’t get this book done and dusted this year I might just have to shelve it — and I don’t think I want to do that at all. There’s value there, there’s a book there, it just needs another draft. And maybe an agent willing to work with me to get the book into better shape.

I also would love to start writing articles again. I miss that a lot — I did a lot of it when I worked for Alliance Atlantis, lifestyle-type fluffy pieces on road trips and lipsticks. The first one I would pitch, should I ever pluck up the courage to actually pitch anyone, which so isn’t me, is a bed rest/hospital stay survival guide for high risk pregnancy women. It’s such a hard situation. When I was on the 7th floor of Mt Sinai there were women there for months. I mean MONTHS. Can you imagine spending that much time in a room you have to share with another person or, at the worst, three other people. Walking the same hallways, eating the same poor excuse for food, finding a way to feel human isn’t easy in those situations — everything about it makes you realize just how sick you are, and the implications for your mind when your body is failing are very hard to come to terms with, especially with 52 doctors coming in and out on a regular basis. Somehow, I think it would be a good story for people to read — mine, but I’m not sure how or where it could go.

Anyway, I cleaned out a closet yesterday and it was very rewarding. It added more items to the rolling to do list, which is the greatest organization invention of all time as every intern who ever worked for me knows (I make all of them do them), but I now know where my other Michael Kors strappy sandal is, and that actually felt like an accomplishment. Not that I have anywhere to wear them, but at least they’re a pair instead of being stranded and lost within my own house.

My second favourite photo of RRBB. He’s finally started to semi-enjoy the bath.