The NBLB Survey: The Readers Answer...And Tag YOU!

As we share other people's published stories, we discover our own - through the books we've read, want to read, and wished we'd written in the first place. What books have shaped your life? And which books will you always have close to your heart...and which ones you'd rather banish to the "illegible 4evah" pile? Welcome to the first NBLB Q & A - we're kicking it off with our own answers...and want to read yours too!

Meimei: From "The Good Book" to Coelho, a Barefoot Contessa, and not drinking Jamba Juice while reading at the airport

1) First book you remember reading from cover to cover. Barring any cookbooks, magazines, and any other age-inappropriate reading material, I'd say it would be one of those Bible story collections.

2) Book(s) your parents would hand to you, as the "guide to life." I would say "the Bible," except that Mom and Dad ended up giving me a copy of Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet before they let me get my hands on the NAB. For good reason, too.

3) Book(s) you read as teenage rebellion. Catcher in the Rye - the first one, and still the best - followed by the English translation of The Stranger (L'Etranger) by Camus, which FINALLY helped me understand the lyrics to "Killing an Arab" by The Cure. Oh, and Kerouac's On the Road.

4) Shakespearean play that embodies YOU. The Tempest. Poor Caliban, and not because I played him in high school.

5) That damned novel that you should've written. (Book embodying your LIFE) Love in the Time of Cholera. I fell in love with Marquez and magic realism because of this book.

6) Genre(s) you would find YOUR first novel displayed under... Asian-American Fiction, without a doubt. Too much talking for a romance novel; too much kissing to be considered mainstream Christian; too much fighting and cussing to be stocked in a Catholic bookstore.

7) Favorite non-fiction autobio/biography. A tie: Swimming with Scapulars by Matthew Lickona (one of those underappreciated Catholic Gen-X books worth reading) and What Should I Do with My Life? by Po Bronson.

8) Book you would read on the plane to keep strangers from talking to you. He's Just Not That Into You. Ironically, this book made me laugh so hard that it did keep strangers away from me when I read this at Jamba Juice!

9) Book you would give to a potential significant other. Without a doubt, a cookbook - Barefoot Contessa at Home, by Ina Garten.

10) Dream writing collaboration - who would it be? Julie Powell, of the blog-turned-book Julie & Julia. Food, blogging, autobiography - so many things to discuss! Happy Scribe and I should take her out for tapas.

11) If you were trapped on a deserted island...and you find a stash of books written by ONE AUTHOR...who would you want that author to be? Paulo Coelho. Good Lord, Eleven Minutes owned me.

12) What book/author is your reading "Waterloo"? Waterloo, meaning "I give the eff up - go away, book?" I think I did that with Smart Women, Foolish Choices - it's definitely one that has not stood the test of time, unfortunately.

The Happy Scribe: It's Pratchett Time!

1) First book you remember reading from cover to cover. I remember those Golden Book fair tales so well - those dolls dressed up as characters illustrating each page. My favorite was Cinderella in her frothy dress. I also loved the Gem Classics books, each with a color theme like Emerald or Sapphire, compilations of traditional myths and Grimm's tales. The visual impact of those stunning illustrations stay with me to this day - I wouldn't mind owning a set of these books again!

2) Book(s) your parents would hand to you, as the "guide to life." My dad handed me a copy of The Secret last year. It totally surprised me. Not because of The Secret's message. It's just that my dad is more likely to hand me the Ten Commandments DVD, being more of a movie buff.

3) Book(s) you read as teenage rebellion. Star Trek: The Next Generation novels and bodice-rippers scandalized my very conservative mother for different reasons, but ultimately, it was the parting lament: "We have a library full of great classics, and you spend your allowance on those trashy paperbacks!"

4) Shakespearean play that embodies YOU. Much Ado About Nothing. Beatrice and Benedick exchanging witty barbs in a word-filled Wimbledon are such vivid characters in my head. Peeling away the layers (and the arguments) to reveal the happy truths - I liked that.

5) That damned novel that you should've written. (Book embodying your LIFE) In my twenties, Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones books encapsulated my confused existence back then. Now...probably Peter Mayle's books - life spent in quiet contemplation of the passing seasons, writing and lots of good food.

6) Genre(s) you would find YOUR first novel displayed under... It's definitely Chick Lit/Romance. I'm not going to write the Great American Novel, but I think I can amuse a few people on long flights/train commutes. Also, the comic strip aisle, because I'll always have a furry animal story in me. (Long live Tarabella...and watch out for the adventures of Lord Kittensley Furface!)

7) Favorite non-fiction autobio/biography. Technically, Jessica Zafra's Twisted books are based on her newspaper columns, but as a longtime reader I adore the little peeks into one very sharp mind, whether it's currently preoccupied with tennis, Tolkien, or Manila traffic.

8) Book you would read on the plane to keep strangers from talking to you. Anything heavy and Russian, like Tolstoy or Doesteyevsky.

9) Book you would give to a potential significant other. Hubby totally got Terry Pratchett's Mort, which means we're soul mates. He then handed Herberts Dune and Huxley's Brave New World to me...the lifelong sci-fi/fantasy fan. We're a match made in other universes.

10) Dream writing collaboration - who would it be? I would die of pure geek overload if Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett said "hello" to me, much less wanting to share a byline with my name.

11) If you were trapped on a deserted island...and you find a stash of books written by ONE AUTHOR...who would you want that author to be? Terry Pratchett, if you haven't noticed! :)

12) What book/author is your reading "Waterloo"? James Joyce's Ulysses drowned MY stream of consciousness to the point I had to call in the mental Coast Guard. I cannot finish this book!

Need something to pass the hours between the news and Lost? Did YOU finish Ulysses? We're tagging you, fellow bloggers, to answer the NBLB Q & A on your own site.

Have a great weekend...and happy reading!

Hey Brutha, can you spare a belief?: Terry Pratchett's take on religion in Discworld

My belief compass spins on the following cultural cosmic points: personal experience, Michaelangelo's vision of the Creative Spark (to be expounded on in a future post on "The Agony and the Ecstasy"), resilient mental residue of parental/professional mentors' advice, and Terry Pratchett's take on faith. On paper, I'm religiously scattered: Catholic school, fundamentalist Christian Sundays, Buddhist maxims, and Oprah. In my heart, it's just the good ole Golden Rule: do unto others...well, you get the drift. Don't tase me, bro and all that jazz.

Terry Pratchett's "Small Gods" was my mind's window into religions explained, set in the seemingly ridiculous scenario of a world carried on the backs of four elephants standing on a giant turtle swimming through space. This is Discworld, the finest, craziest fantasy setting since C.S. Lewis and Tolkien.

"In a chaotic universe there are too many things to go wrong."

Brutha, a devout Omnian (take one part fundamentalist Christian, one part Tibetan monk), has a prodigious memory. He remembers scripture word for word, with all their connotations.

He also remembers tortoises aren't supposed to talk.

But one does - to Brutha as he works in the garden, claiming divinity. In fact, the tortoise was the great God (with a capital G) Om. And oh, by the way, Brutha's the Chosen One."And it came to pass that in time the Great God Om spake unto Brutha, the Chosen One: `Psst!'"

Of course, communing with G(g)od isn't that easy when pesky things like huge church institutions and ideological wars come into play. Enter Vorbis, the head of the Quisition (excuse the inevitable Monty Python imagery), who uses the simple-yet-spongey lad to kick start an invasion into opposing territory. Inevitably, the story's plot leads to Vorbis' defeat, Brutha's acceptance of his place as the reforming (and more humane) Eighth Prophet, with Om learning a bit more about H(h)imself as super dooper deity. "When you can flatten entire cities at a whim, a tendency towards quiet reflection and seeing-things-from-the-other-fellow's-point- of-view is seldom necessary."

So why do I like this book so much? Yes, there are the talking creatures and fantasy situations of course. But Pratchett's gorgeous satire, those gentle pokes from his pen open tiny breathing holes for the mind...and the spirit. He takes on th ancient Greeks, Christianity, Buddhism, Taoism and popular bumper stickers with equal aplomb. It's everyone's truth...and everyone's doubts about organized religion.

"Now we've got a truth to die for!"
"No. Men should die for lies. But the truth is too precious to die for."

There are small gods everywhere in Pratchett's universe, yearning for a little belief so that they too can incarnate and mean something to someone. To think that faith, wherever it's directed, can create - the opposite of most monotheistic religions in this world - it's an intriguing thought, perhaps heretical in this world...but hey, in Pratchett's zone, Death has an apprentice, witches inexpertly fly on brooms for house calls, and belief isn't about how many angels are dancing on a pin...rather, it's how you react to a tortoise claiming to be the Almighty in your garden. Whether you gently nudge H(h)im on this way, scream or start talking notes...well, that's your business. "Small Gods" is about belief in the human spirit, one of the few "stand-alone" books in the Discworld series I heartily recommend for anyone who's in need of a bit of comic relief from your day-to-day Universe.

A Kiss is Not a Contract

Here's an admission that will probably shock my churchgoing friends: Proud Christian that I may be (and yes, folks, practicing Roman Catholics can still be considered as Christians), I do not own a copy of the Christian-relationship classic I Kissed Dating Goodbye. Wait, scratch that: I may never own a copy of the Christian-relationship classic I Kissed Dating Goodbye.

It's not that it's a horrible book. I don't condemn people who read it for insight any more than I condemn people who take The Da Vinci Code as gospel, or who believe that Elizabeth Gilbert's little travel-and-divorce memoir belongs in the "self help" aisle. I also think that Joshua Harris, as a Christian and a writer, is pretty concise about making his points known - as we can see when we talk about his other books. I do have my own personal reasons for doing this, however, so please do forgive me if I do sound judgmental.

Reason #1 has something to do with my friend Bunny, who's a more conservative Catholic than I am. She and Josh Harris are around the same age, and both of them grew up in Maryland - not too far from each other, in fact, though not close enough to be passing acquaintances. She remembers vividly when IKDG first came out, when Josh was 21 and Bunny was in her late teens.

If I had been Bunny around that time - taking her own faith into consideration - my reaction would have been, "Oh, wow! Finally, a young person has written a dating book for Christians like me OMG!!1111!!!" But Bunny's reaction, upon reading the book herself at that time, was a little more blunt: HOW DARE YOU.

How dare he - a young person with no more experience than having gone through puberty - how dare he tell people to "not date" and give their lives to God instead, at an age when most people haven't even figured out their true calling! How dare he talk about courtship and dating when he himself had only gone through a "serious" relationship! Where was his discernment?

All things considered, Bunny had since gone to college, got a full-time job, lived out her (drama-filled) single years in service of the Church, and eventually married a wonderful fellow Catholic with whom she has three beautiful children and a blissful family life. Just like Josh Harris himself - who also got married, had children, and eventually became a pastor at his church - Bunny and her family continue to live their lives in service of God.

Which then leads us to Reason #2.

I did read the two books that Josh Harris wrote after IKDG - Boy Meets Girl and Sex Is Not the Problem (then titled Not Even a Hint). Both of these books addressed the prevailing irony of Harris' life: that the young man who "kissed dating goodbye" would then eventually find himself falling in love, getting married, and becoming a father - both to his children and his church community, as a young pastor. And in both books, Harris also talks about how much trouble "that dating book" gave him - how he realized that perhaps he had been too stringent and self-righteous about his dating advice; how young kids were telling him that they were "courting" when they don't understand the implications of the word; and how it even got him in trouble at Blockbuster whenever he rented popular mainstream movies that were obviously not "Christian" in content.

In retrospect, I thought the two books did a better job of meeting me where I was in my own journey than "that book" would have, considering how vulnerable I had been at that time as a renewed Christian/ un-lapsed Catholic. Even in Sex is Not The Problem - which would have sounded like a finger-wagging lecture to me - Harris acknowledges that not everyone has the same level of tolerance when it comes to addressing issues of relationships and lust in their own lives. It's not that he approves of "Christians" who don't mind owning vibrators or year-long subscriptions to Maxim, although Harris is a lot more frank about his sexual experiences in this book. Yet, it's not like he's asking working people to live their lives like cloistered monks and nuns when it's not practical for them. In this case, the wisdom of maturity actually works in Harris' favor here, along with a clearer and deeper understanding of human nature.

It's also worth noting that Josh Harris also gave a complementary blurb to a book that was written as a reaction to "that one" - I Gave Dating a Chance, by Jeramy Clark, which seeks to provide "a Biblical perspective to balance the extremes." I did read the Clark book, too - and that one's for another entry - and I found it to be a better companion book for Harris' Boy Meets Girl than it is for "the other one." For all of Harris' talk about "courtship" and chastity, I found Clark's approach to relationships and romances to be more true-to-life: It's OK, he says, if you want to hang out with somebody from the opposite sex, as long as you know where the boundaries are. It's not just a matter of keeping Tab A away from Slot B, but a matter of knowing where you and the other person stand with each other - otherwise one (or both) of you will get the wrong signals, and that's just more trouble than it's worth.

Which is not to say that I don't recommend I Kissed Dating Goodbye for anyone who wants to read it. In fact, I actually think it's a great idea for young people to read it, talk about it, reflect on the "lifestyle" that Harris has presented. I'm just saying that, as somebody who's well past her 21st birthday, I'm not sure if this book is going to speak to me any more than the other ones have done already.

And here's where we get to my main problem with "that book" - Reason #3, if you will - which I'm sure a lot of Christians my age have encountered: It's not the book itself, but the people who insist on making me read it.

Now we're talking. Surely the Meimei, she doth protest too much? Maybe I am. But I can't just sit there letting some "church" lady tell me that I should read this wonderful I Kissed Dating Goodbye book and how it should help me live my single life.

Well-meaning, yes. Pushy as heck? Oh, hell yes. Borderline hypocritical? Do the math. Add to that Reasons #1 and #2, and you've got somebody who doesn't even want to think about the shiny, happy, Christian relationships that have emerged from taking Josh Harris' advice.

Didn't God give us the concept of free will in the first place? For crying out loud. I'm not saying I won't read it, but really now. Let me think about it, pray about it - come to think about it, if you're so inclined, why not pray with me instead? God does speak to us in our own language, after all, and He - of all the authors in this whole universe - would not want His message to be used for bludgeoning and coercion. If He thinks this will help me, then so be it.

I think it goes without saying that the words of the backpacker Chad about the Lonely Planet guidebooks - encountered by Franz Wisner in the Indonesia chapter of Honeymoon with My Brother - sums up how I feel about I Kissed Dating Goodbye: "Excellent source of information. Use it as a reference, not as a bible."

(And, yes, I do have the New American in my bookshelf. Read it pretty regularly, too. Thanks for asking.)

Oh Briony!: Ian McEwan's "Atonement" and A Writer's Destructive Imagination

I confess, I saw the movie before I ever picked up an Ian McEwan novel. The film's Romeo and Juliet-like plot made me cry, and Saoirse Ronan's brilliant portrayal of a dangerously fanciful preteen made me want to reach out and shake some sense into her. Gorgeous movie - and definitely deserving a much longer book-to-film review later on in this here blog.

But there is the movie...and there is the book. And McEwan's prose - rich, lyrical, and above all written with such insight into the soul of a writer - past, present, and future. Cecilia and Robbie's ill-starred love through the wide eyes of the bewildered Briony Tallis takes on many forms - her reactions all at once a younger sister clinging to her childhood, and a young woman feeling the first pangs of rejection. Perhaps you've seen the movie already, with Hollywood's compacted conclusion to this drama. I assure you - the book offers more than the welling up of regret in Vanessa Redgrave's watery visage.

This was a book that almost got left behind during my rather irritated stopover at the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport. After over ten hours of flying from Asia to the U.S. mainland, I found myself in a veritable maze of monorails and a whole alphabet of terminals and connections. I had already finished my stash of humor books - all written by the infinitely sharp and sassy Jessica Zafra, my teen writing idol (also due a much-needed post in the very near future). Boredom, my worst enemy, started to settle in with the exhaustion. I dragged myself to the nearest book kiosk, thinking of a light romance, or even a paperback mystery. "Atonement" featured prominently on the shelves, of course - as movie blockbusters do give any writer that added "buy me now!" gloss. I wasn't sure, almost picking up one of my favorite alterno-fantasy writers - Jasper Fforde - instead, taking a quick scan at a random McEwan page while waiting in line.

"The self-contained world she had drawn with clear and perfect lines had been defaced with the scribble of other minds, other needs; and time itself, so easily sectioned on paper into acts and scenes, was even now dribbling uncontrollably away."

Hrm.

And...as I am one of those perverse people who read the back of the book BEFORE purchase..

"The problem these fifty-nine years has been this: how can a novelist achieve atonement when, with her absolute power of deciding outcomes, she is also God? There is no one, no entity or higher form that she can appeal to, or be reconciled with, or that can forgive her. There is nothing outside her. In her imagination she has set the limits and the terms."

Hooked.

The relationships and the descriptions of a bygone age were so delicately wrought, I didn't want to deface the words by folding over the pages in my usual haste to mark my place (yes, I am also one of those awful people). My MPLS-CLE boarding pass slid in and out of this book like lightning - not even the fatigue or the bumpy flight could keep me off McEwan's narrative. "Oh ATONEMENT," exclaimed a particularly chatty seatmate...who proceeded to read over my shoulder in the most annoying fashion. I had to lean away protectively when I reached the scene of Cecilia and Robbie in the library, which went well beyond the already steamy grapple between camera-friendly Keira and James. (Hands-down, one of the hottest book love scenes ever - and the complete opposite of kilt-and-buxom maiden romantic cliches). And it has been a long time since a character made me as mad as Briony has - with her overzealous judgement, her child's logic of black and white marring one couple's chance for happiness.

Her saving grace, however, was her growth as a writer - my own chosen profession, passion, and many times, plague. When she struggled with rejection and rewriting, my heart went out to her - yes, even her, that little snot who testified so wrongly against Robbie - these creative growth spurts put to paper made her come alive as a full, however-flawed human being. She tried to lose herself in thankless nursing, scrubbing out her sins with the blood of the wounded - but that spirit remained alive, even during those traumatic times. She "took pleasure" in the competence and numbness that nursing offered - but she knew, scribbling away in private on a never-ending manuscript - that to feel deeply about life, to want to record all the aspects of the human condition, was her true calling.

"Here, behind the name badge and the uniform, was her true self, secretly hoarded, quietly accumulating. She had never lost that childish pleasure in seeing pages covered in her own handwriting. It almost didn't matter what she wrote...At the time, the journal preserved her dignity: she might look and behave like and live the life of a trainee nurse, but she was really an important writer in disguise. And at the time when she was cut off from everything she knew - family, home, friends - writing was the threat of continuity. It was what she had always done."

Her writing kept her from becoming a cookie-cutter villain, despite the horrible results of her childhood accusations. Her writing cursed her, because she kept returning to that one story, that one true narrative of events she tried to control...and failed miserably to understand. We can no more forgive her than condemn her in the end. Writing was her way of atoning for her past. It was the only thing she knew how to do - and face it, the only thing she really loved, above all the living, breathing characters in her life. It is a paper cut truth that lives within each one cursed and blessed with the pen's imperative to control, to mold, to manipulate reality into malleable words and sentences. Ah, Briony - I know thee well.

Bodice Ripping Cliches, Part 2: Och, Laddie!

One of the most lingering questions I've had as a romance novel reader concerns the ongoing mythology of the hot Scottish laird as romantic protagonist. I've heard explanations of the phenomenon in terms of the decline of the native Highland culture since Scotland lost its independence from England - which to me sounds pretty logical, given the right amount of historical research; in the hands of a lesser author, otherwise, it risks bordering on the "Mandingo" theory that I wrote about in the previous entry.

And then there's the other theory I have, which has less to do with culture and more to do with (pardon my Masters in Ed here) visual learning. Simply put, mention the words "hot, sexy Scotsman" and one's mind immediately wanders to THIS...





(Insert inevitable "light saber" joke here.)

Or THIS...

(Aye, Gerry! Call me! Let me take that pink sweater off you!)

Or even THIS...

(That sound you just heard? That's me screaming bloody murder, having featured my mother's own Dream Man-slash-Fantasy Baby Daddy on my own site.)

Unfortunately, however, my regular interactions with Scottish men are limited to the likes of THIS...

And I say this as somebody who does find Craig Ferguson attractive, being the cheeky monkey that he already is on his talk show.

(Also: My science teacher in 8th Grade was from Scotland, and he used to scare the heck out of me whenever I got my periodic table wrong. Not dead sexy.)

Seriously, though - what is it about Scottish men, anyway? Is it the lingering suspicion about what's under the kilt? Is it the inherent hairiness of their bodies? Is it that air of danger about them, combined with the brokenness of lost nobility? Or is it the rough but warm tones of the Highland burr? I mean, it's not like Ireland is lacking in that department, either (as anyone who has watched any U2 video between 1989 and 1993 can tell you) but you don't read a lot about hot, sexy Irish men of fallen nobility in your tawdry little paperbacks, do you?

Of course not - it's always Irish for your earthy stablehands, English for your buttoned-up noblemen, and Scottish for your brave warriors... and if you're Nora Roberts writing about American men descended from these bloodlines, chances are you won't avoid it either. (Really, now, Nora - a hot-headed, whisky-swilling stablehand from California who's also descended from County Galway? How did I not see that coming?)

I think this just goes back, once again, to the main problem currently plaguing the romance genre in general: There's not a lot of room in these books to explore the actual nuances of human experience. Just as you won't expect interracial relationships to be explored beyond the "oooh, exotic!" level, you won't expect your average romance writer to get past the expected mold of Gaelic men and present them as actual human beings instead of "aye, lassie" cartoon characters. Which, to me, is a deeper problem that goes beyond any question of talent or research on the part of the author, and probes deeper into whether or not the sales/marketing/ higher-up folks at the publishing companies actually Get It when it comes to what readers want from their authors. In a day and age where issues of class, race, gender, and politics are pervasive in the cultural landscape, isn't it time to put away the childish generalities and start making room for some gray areas to temper the watercolored fairy tales?

Bodice Ripping Cliches

Those of you who know me know that romance novels are my not-so-secret shame; there's no amount of college-educated veneer that can cover up my craving for far-flung adventures, flowery purple prose, and aesthetically pleasing protagonists who find themselves falling in love in the most improbable ways. (Don't believe me? Click here for the entries I wrote in my regular blog on this very genre.)

And, as I have mentioned on my blog before, I am excruciatingly picky about which bodice rippers I get to buy. None of your $4 Harlequin romances for me - give me the $6-$8 paperbacks with the shimmery gauze and flowers on the front cover (which often conveniently hides the potentially embarrassing Regency-era bodice-ripping tableau underneath), or your contemporary romances with cartoon women in fancy heels and silky scarves! Give me something that has the words "New York Times Bestselling Author" on them, and you'll know I'm a sucker from the get-go.

Now that we've gotten this out of the way, here's a sampling of romance-novel cliches that I truly believe should be retired as soon as possible:

- Coercion. Hello, romance-writing people - it's the 21st century already! How many times do we have to remind you that No Means No? And don't even try to retcon the whole thing by giving us the ol' "hard-to-get" trick, or that she ended up enjoying being in the sucker's own bed, because really - if she didn't enjoy it then, she'd be a fair amount of crazy to think it's acceptable later. It wasn't acceptable back in the days of Jane Austen, and it sure as hell won't be acceptable now.

- The Stockholm Syndrome. In the same token, please don't give us any more of those "heroine falls for her kidnapper" plots unless you can give us a plausible example of how it happens. I personally used to enjoy this particular plot, until I picked up an Ann Rule anthology that explained the Stockholm Syndrome to me in shockingly gruesome detail. Let's just say that a lot of books went back to the library that day, and there was vomiting involved.


- Fabio. Fabio the person is already reprehensible to me (not the least of which for his ongoing childish beef with my boy Intern George), but the concept of Fabio and his clones - the long hair, the rippling muscles - being brandished indiscriminately on the front covers of paperbacks is representative of everything that gives romance novels a bad, bad name. Am I, as part of the Dear Reader contingent, supposed to swoon like a maiden and lay myself down, expecting to be ravaged by this masculine beast? Also, judging by the shots from Old Fabs' guest appearance on America's Next Top Model, it's beginning to look more and more to me that the guy, er, doesn't seem to genuinely enjoy the company of women. I'm just saying.

- The Mandingo as Noble Savage. You will never, ever, find me picking up any books where Africans, Latinos, Asians, Native Americans, Gypsies, and even Hawaii-based surfers are being held up as shining examples of manhood for the bored haole ladies who fall at their feet. Likewise, if you ever find me picking up books where bored haole men fall in love with equally "exotic" women, there's a good chance that you will definitely find me laughing in the aisles. There are relatively few novelists that are truly adept at making interracial relationships believable and plausible without having to resort to such borderline-offensive generalities.

- Vampires. Yes, I'll say it - I'm one of the few women in America who does not, repeat, not get turned on by the thought of an otherwise luscious ol' bloodsucker nipping at my heels (or any other part of my body, for that matter). What is the big deal about fraternizing with the undead, anyway? It's not like you could take them anywhere for dinner. For this, I blame Laurell K. Hamilton and her silly notions of ardeur.

- Improbable sex acts. Man, I wish I had the link to that one actual novel where Our Intrepid Hero takes "a flying leap" into, er, Our Lovely Heroine, with her lying on a wooden floor beneath him. Yowch!

- The Underage Bride/ Dirty Old Hero. If the age of Our Lovely Heroine is younger than the age of consent in a good majority of the 50 states, and/or the Intrepid Hero who's supposed to love and save her is older than her by more than 10 years, that's not romantic - that's plenty creepy.

-The sentence "I'll take that as a yes" as an acceptable closing line. The first time I read this was cute. The next three dozen books that I read afterward that had the same line... not so much.

Yes, I do seem to have more rules on romance novels than Barney on How I Met Your Mother has rules on dating. Please note, however, that not all bodice-rippers have these cliches, and not all romance-novel cliches are this excruciating to behold. It's all a matter of where you look.

Elizabeth Gilbert Will Have Her Revenge: Battle of the Oprah-Endorsed Books, Part 2

Don't get us wrong. We at NBLB enjoyed reading Eat, Pray, Love. We both had so much fun recommending this book to each other, and to our friends as well.

I, personally, would like to invite Elizabeth Gilbert to sit down with me and talk about our travels over a never-ending array of coffee drinks and chocolate pastries. I honestly believe Liz when she tells me that she never intended her little memoir about chucking it all to see the world to turn into a "self help" phenomenon, and she never intended for people to copy her story to the very letter.

(I also think that my friend from Cleveland should really ease up on reading gossip blogs writtten by bitter gays... but I digress.)

That said. If I were to put EPL in a deathmatch against another Oprah-approved book, I'd put it on equal footing with yet another memoir about a selfish, broken-hearted, well-to-do American who chucked everything to travel the world and find one's self in the process. In other words...

I'll admit, I read Honeymoon with my Brother before I read EPL because I was aware of the inevitable Liz Gilbert backlash. (And also because I found a harcover copy from a neighbor's give-away stash while waiting for the Gilbert book to arrive from Amazon.) I'll also admit that Franz Wisner's writing doesn't exactly compare to Liz Gilbert's, especially when you consider that Gilbert is a professional, published writer with years of experience in the book business, and Honeymoon was cobbled together from a series of emails that Franz and Kurt Wisner sent to their (equally powerful and well-connected) friends during their ongoing trips all over the world.

The similarities are striking. Gilbert embarked on her "I, I, I" journey after a wrenching divorce and subsequently wrenching rebound romance; Wisner embarked on his year-long journey with his brother after his fiancee called off the wedding and left him clutching a non-refundable trip to Costa Rica. Both of them did end up in Indonesia at one point; in fact, both of them ended up traveling to both Bali and Gili Meno. Both of them supported themselves with visits to friends-of-friends, unexpected financial support, and the joy that comes with new experiences. Both of them even ended up with Brazilian paramours at some point of their journey. Both of them ended their journeys with new relationships, a new-found sense of self -- and the kind of exposure that any writer would kill for, starting with guest appearances on Oprah and the inevitable movie adaptation development deal.

And, look, both of them even have lovely meditations on the Brazilian Portuguese language!

Gilbert:

In bed he slips into adoring me in Portuguese, so I have graduated from being his "lovely little darling" to being his queridinha. (Literal translation: "lovely little darling.") I've been too lazy here in Bali to try to learn Indonesian or Balinese, but suddenly Portuguese is coming easy to me. Of course I'm learning the pillow talk, but that's a fine use of Portuguese.

Wisner:

"We loved Pau de Acucar," I said, pronouncing it as "pow day a-Sue-car." "Took the tram up there yesterday afternoon for the sunset. Beautiful, just beautiful, Pau de Acucar."

Claudia began to chuckle, prompting Deborah to shoot her a glance [...]
Her father grabbed his plate and started back to the kitchen. I thought I heard him laugh as well. I know I heard Claudia giggle some more. Ana Carolina, too. Deborah grabbed my arm, pulling my head below table level for an emergency conference.

"Do you know what you're saying?" she whispered. "You're telling my parents that you think your penis is stunning."

"What did I say?"

"You said pau instead of pao. Pao means bread. Pau means penis."

"So Pau de Acucar means sugar penis? I've been raving about my sugar penis?"

Portuguese pillow talk aside, it's not like either author is recommending that you should do as they have written, almost to the very letter. (Especially not the Wisners, whose unwise purchase of a Saab figures prominently in their adventure throughout Eastern Europe.) If you ask me, I'd rather watch the movie adaptation of Honeymoon than EPL - but only because I thought that Wisner's narrative lends itself more easily to a screenplay*, whereas Gilbert's is so rich and befitting of her literary experience that I'd hate to see people like Felipe or Richard from Texas get retooled as mere back-up characters next to Julia Roberts-as-Liz.


I also think that Wisner also has a slight edge because he doesn't even pretend to be anywhere near enlightened about the journey he has taken; he does acknowledge that he wants no pity or sympathy from the dear reader for anything that he has gone through. He doesn't even pretend that his breakup has changed his view of women and relationships, either - as can be seen in the sex scenes strewn around the book involving the women he meets up with in his travels, and the (admittedly) bittersweet nostalgia he held for his ex.

Readers who were worn down by Gilbert's insistent chorus of "this trip is for meeeeee" may actually find some solace in Wisner's take on family values; aside from the titular brother and the friends they encounter along the way, there's also the presence of the Wisners' grandmother-figure LaRue, whose loving relationship with the boys provide a much-needed contrast to their bumbling adventures. Perhaps, then, it won't come as a surprise that Wisner's story does not have the stereotypical Hollywood-style happy ending, especially when you consider that the woman who does become Mrs. Franz Wisner doesn't even show up in the book at all.


This isn't to say that I'd recommend one over the other; again, while I think that EPL is better-written and more contemplative, Honeymoon still stands as a solid travelogue, and Wisner's lack of polish as a writer actually complements the book. What I'd recommend, then, is to do as I have done: read both books, back to back, as a "double feature" of sorts. Treat both books as two halves of the same universal story, and then use them as an inspiration for your own travel plans.

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*Also because, as I have mentioned in Domesticity, I already have some casting ideas in my head: As much as I would kill to see Paul Rudd and Peter Sarsgaard redeem their careers as the Brothers Wisner, I won't mind at all if Hollywood went the obvious route and cast George Clooney and Aaron Eckhart instead.

Self-Help Smackdown: "The Secret" vs. "Eat Pray Love"

There are a lot of common points between the "love yourself" blockbusters "The Secret" and "Eat Pray Love" (from here on, shortened to EPL...which I know, makes it sound like a pregnancy test...but where's your brain going, eh?). Both are written by women on the verge - or after - a nervous breakdown, have tons of quotable meditations on life...and probably are on your shelf courtesy of a recent "convert" to their maxims. Would-be writers drool over the sales figures both books have bagged and the Oprah accolades that have followed. There's something to be said about coping with personal tragedy by looking outward - and no doubt, both books, to a receptive mind, do provide some effective points on how we can all become shiny happy people. But which one would win a self-help smackdown here on NBLB? How does the Universe-as-genie-in-a-bottle (cue vintage Aguilera track) fares against a proactive traveling yogi with a big appetite?

Rhonda Byrne, an Australian producer, kicked it off with The Secret documentary, a video now passed on via YouTube and recommended on Netflix faster than you can put up your own visualization board. That video made up mainly of talking heads involved in "life coaching" professions (which include a slew of earnest philosophers, the author of the Chicken Soup for the Soul books, a feng shui specialist, a dreadlocked pastor and some very wacked out quantum physicists) soon made its way in paper form, via the transcribed and annotated "Secret" book. Meanwhile, in EPL, we're all shown how heaven hath no joy more than a woman who can wield a pen and a passport simultaneously. Technically, EPL is a memoir with lots of interesting observations of life in Italy, India and Indonesia...but as" One Woman's Search for Everything," it also has lots of "true dat!" moments sure to make you want to eat pasta, do yoga and buy a Balinese woman a house to improve your lot in life.

I tend to group self-help books into two categories: those that set off my bullshit meter and make me laugh all the way in the opposite direction (this usually happens from the cover, which is why self-help is one section my browsing shadow rarely darkens)...and those that set off my bullshit meter, but somehow titillate my curiosity. Now "The Secret," to be honest, fell in the first category. From the mystical red seal on the covers, to the slew of quotes between short explanations...it rang my New Age kooky bell loud and clear. It took a lazy afternoon with my parents and a sheer lack of anything else to do, to get me to watch The Secret video. And...despite the cheesy as heck re-enactments (Um...men in togas? Cardinal Richelieu insinuation? And ...Byrne throwing her head back like Milla in the final scenes of The Fifth Element...wot?!?) and my giggling every time the dreadlocked pastor showed up on camera, the messages behind the odd images did, by Jove, make sense. So now I own the book, and while it's still quite a swallow of quotes and at-times outrageous claims, I'd keep it handy for those days when you feel a little blue. But it was the VIDEO that spawned the book purchase, mind you - if I were to base this book procurement on writing...I'd laugh my way back home.

Gilbert's travel therapy EPL, on the other hand, is immensely readable, first-person narrative in the hands of a capable writer who clearly was determined to feel better - in any time zone. Her journey from post-divorce depression to (spoiler alert!) finding an older Latin lover in Bali after living in an ashram seems like "Under The Tuscan Sun" with a whiff of patchouli. Her Italy section, filled with hedonistic descriptions of food, wine and good-looking Italians conversing in their poetic language, was my favorite part of her journey of self-discovery. After Italy, however, the book took a more spiritual - and gradually more serious - turn. India's ashram experience brought forth perhaps the book's most memorable character: the no-nonsense Texan yogi Richard who didn't mince words about his impressions of the extreme lifestyle, Gilbert's appetite (he called her "Groceries"), and yes...that quote: "mosquitoes so big, they could rape a chicken." Thank goodness for Richard - because at that point, after the requisite first encounters, Gilbert sounded more and more like the Architect from The Matrix.

If "The Secret" had that "Universe as genie" ridiculous moment, Gilbert's guru dreams and blue light special meditations made me want to ask her if she could PRETTY PLEASE talk about pasta again. By the time we reach Bali, it seems Liz doesn't even need the medicine man she befriends - he needs her. It becomes too neat - in this world where our books about self-discovery must have a certain messiness to be probable - girl gets divorce, goes traveling, gets her spiritual groove on, and meets cute older (balding?) dude. Maybe there's a bit of Schadenfreude seeping through these sentences as well. And maybe if we did have her kind of budget, this sort of spiritual discovery would be possible. In some way, this book is like a series of postcards, a "wish you were here," scrawled in pasta sauce and signed in the sand in Paradise.

So what's it going to be? Which feisty blonde wins in the self-help arena this time around? EPL, hands-down, is the better READ, but you could probably apply The Secret without getting shots or paying for airfare. Based on the messages, both call for a positive attitude to get over the rough spots. Each to his/her own, if you will.

If you go purely by best-selling stats (truth by numbers)...there's another feisty blonde that still kicks both their asses in terms of getting published after prevailing over adversity:


Harry Potter trumps yoga anytime. Accio!

Ruhlman's "The Soul of a Chef," a.k.a. "Michael Symon Rocks"

I discovered Michael Ruhlman's delicious culinary chronicles stacked next to a shit ton of Harvey Pekar comics at the Coventry Library. It was the first time I remember venturing out of the chick lit and sci-fi sections, which were my default stops, still timidly exploring my neighborhood's literary offerings.

I was going for a Pekar anthology when I knocked over Ruhlman's "The Reach of the Chef." (The Universe apparently wanted me to go beyond my microwaved knowledge of the cooking world.) Result: I have yet to cook anything more complicated than scrambled eggs (sorry Mom), but after spending less than a day devouring Ruhlman's descriptions, I was hooked. This heat-filled, insanely competitive world thrilled me to my very toes. FINALLY, my former newsie self exhaulted, a profession that makes broadcast journalists look SANE in comparison.

Ruhlman's journalistic style makes reading about food all the more enjoyable. "The Reach of the Chef" takes on how chefs have become the new rock stars, captivating the public with television-savvy cooking and a barrage of nouveau gourmet products. As my gateway foodie book, I couldn't put "Reach" down. If you haven't read Anthony Bourdain's delightful cooking travelogues or Gael Greene's scandalous memoir yet, start with Ruhlman. He feeds the mind.

So, needing my next foodie-lit fix, I grabbed "The Soul of a Chef," the volume preceding "Reach." (I seem to be tackling Ruhlman's culinary trilogy BACKWARDS - eventually I'll get to "The Making of a Chef," his first-person immersion into the gruelling life of a student at the Culinary Institute of America.) The book starts off running, straight into a certification trial that had some of the country's best cooks in tears over a test filled with rigorous classical cooking, mystery baskets and some of cuisine's most discerning judges. Yeah, that's definitely an immediate page-turner right there - especially the parts when a major airline's head chef has a major meltdown. Of course, the REAL draw for "Soul" in MY book is a certain soul patched chef from round these parts...

It's hard not to have a foodie crush* on Cleveland (Iron) chef Michael Symon, the bald dude with the distinctive giggle delighting Kitchen Stadium fans on the Food Network. (For those who have yet to visit our fair city by the lake, Chef Symon and his wife Liz are the dynamic duo behind Lola and Lolita, two restaurants with definite "must eat there!!!" status for anyone wanting to claim they've experienced the best of Cleveland cuisine.) Apparently, Ruhlman likes him a lot too - for both his down-to-earth charm and his sky high cooking talent, devoting one of his three essays on the life of the professional chef to Symon and his quirky Lola crew. I got totally geeked with the local flavors seeping through the pages, from pieroghi-making to mentions of familiar street corners. And I definitley chuckled over his account of a local television crew's live coverage of the restaurant, how the reporter made Symon send out a plate over and over...until he protested the food was getting cold.

For Symon, the food is paramount, but his personality locks it all in. From what I've seen of Ruhlman on television, he doesn't seem like the sort to gush like a schoolgirl over just anything. And even in this book, it's not a hand-clasping sort of admiration. What seeps through this well-written observation is a deep respect - going beyond a shared city or profession. It's a deep respect of a person. This dude has soul. The accounts of the chef's self-deprecating jokes and generosity toward his kitchen staff makes me want to save up a good sum to really enjoy his menu and the ambiance of his restaurant.

It might be all stuff we here in Cleveland already know - how his crew adore him, how his prices aren't scary, and yes, yes, yes - how the food is insanely awesome...and somewhat comforting in its integration of familiar flavors, Mediterranean and Midwest styles with fresh local ingredients. (If I had the culinary know-how, no doubt I could go on and on about the food...but it might be a litany of "yummy! yummy! yummy!" after a while.) "Soul," however, brings us inside the kitchens where his staff prep hundreds of ingredients, dodge gas burns, and pull through some really crazy nights serving Lola's bounty to a packed house. It's exciting not just because of the frenetic pace of Symon's work day, but also for the level of talent bubbling over behind those swinging doors. While Ruhlman's book moves on to the hallowed halls and habits of Thomas Keller, the Lola chapter is worth checking out for one big giggly reason why Clevelanders are rocking foodie circles throughout the nation.

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* And apparently, non-culinary appeal as well: "Yeah, he's got that Chris Daughtry thing going," typed fellow NBLB poster Mei during a "who's yummy on Food Network" discussion via Skype.

Miss Austen Says No, No, No

Like many geeky bookworms of A Certain Age, I spent a good chunk of my Sundays following The Complete Jane Austen on PBS' Masterpiece Theatre. Nevermind that they've reformatted the old public-television chestnut to include a softly-lit Gillian Anderson stiffly intoning intros against a background that Keckler of Television Without Pity rightfully likened to a "My Moment, My Dove" commercial - it's the Beeb's own reinterpretation of Aunt Jane's finest work, so how hard could it be to refuse?

For the most part, however, I did enjoy most of the adaptations, especially Northanger Abbey and Mansfield Park (worth it just for Billie "Honey to the B" Piper reciting flawless dialogue in regency garb). I also enjoyed the adaptation of Persuasion, too, but somehow I couldn't get myself past the fact that the actress who plays Anne Elliot bore a strange resemblance to another talented British celebrity, albeit one more troubled than your average Austen heroine.

Here's Sally Hawkins as Anne Elliot...

...and here's the person whose face kept popping up every time Sally Hawkins was on screen.

That ought to put some things in perspective, shouldn't it? Oh, they have attempted to send me to a sanctuary for teetotallers, but I have steadfastly, adamantly refused. Why, verily, I have been foul, but when I am proper, you will surely and definitely be able to recognize it as so! I may not have enough time, and if Papa should believe that I am suitable, you can try to force me into temperance and surely, with defiance, I shall refuse to go...

Books? Really!

This blog, as with most group blogs, started with a long conversation between friends - in this case, two bloggers who have known each other since high school, back when the Internet was nothing more than a twinkle in Al Gore's eye. Oh, sure, the bloggers in question were already dabbling in beauty and fashion (not to mention forays into Filipino-language snark and blissful affirmations for the American Midwest, respectively), and they were already dumping out some of their more personal stuff on Facebook... but we digress.

So why books, and why now? Well, let's face it:

1) We were both burning out on our regular blog-reading diets, which usually consists of bitchy gossip sites and otherwise well-written blogs littered with semi-illiterate posts. And really, there's so much drama that a person can take.

2) Everything in our lives had become more conducive to book-reading: our respective job situations, our declining interest in what's on television, even the weather (and yes, even a place like Honolulu can have depressing rainy days) - so instead of just sitting in our apartments IM-ing about the books we've borrowed from the library, why not let everyone else in on the conversation?

3) We're not after trenchant literary criticism or hipster posing here, even if one of us is an English major and the other is a freelance journalist. We read what we read, we like what we like, and we can't help but write about it all; it's just that simple.

Some of you may take this third point as a way of saying that this blog is non-commercial, and in a way it is. We've both decided to treat this blog as a work of love, as opposed to work work; otherwise we're just chasing deadlines like we do at our real life jobs, and it stops being fun for us. So forgive us, dear reader, if we don't post too regularly, or if we don't get to read anything that you feel that we have to review right away.

And finally: We call this blog No Book Left Behind because that's how we read: there's no book that's too trashy or low-brow for us to tackle. It's not our job to be picky or snobby about what you read, especially when we're just as indiscriminate about our book choices as everyone else. Let's keep this a safe and fun place for us to read about reading. Let's help bring literacy back into vogue again. Let's help make this world a better place by being well-informed readers ourselves.