K.L. Kranes's Blog

I sounded like Darth Vader and looked like I’d gone on a date with Bane from Batman. Well, maybe it wasn’t that badass. 

Like others in this COVID era, I’ve gone through a mask evolution – surgical, single cloth, double cloth, cloth with filter, and those KN95 masks that look like the 21st century version of the beaked plague mask. A respirator mask was a whole different experience. It was like wearing scuba gear on land, but you look like an insect getting ready for a science experiment. 

I wasn’t auditioning for a small-town production of Mad Max or practicing for the nuclear apocalypse. My foray into extreme headgear started like all weird purchases and drastic changes in my life – by learning of yet another way this world is terrible! 

It went a little something like this. 

My pent up frustration at this ridiculous country (I live in the US) needed an outlet that did not consist of me laying awake at 2am seething in anger while imagining all the things I’d like to say, but never will, to all the people who are ruining the planet and sending us back to the Dark Ages. 

Enter plastic.

Yes, I went from Darth Vader to Dark Ages to plastic. To be specific, I learned that only 6% of all plastic in the US gets recycled. Six percent! (Don’t believe me, read this article from Smithsonian Magazine.)

The outrage!

So, what is a person type with a penchant for rebellion and reactionary responses to do? Obviously, the answer is to hoard plastic. 

First, I tried to do the more seemingly logical thing. I vowed to stop buying any and all plastic. Hard fail. (With my family’s unwillingness to give up weekend takeout and the world’s general reliance on plastic, this didn’t work.)

The next logical leap (in my mind, at least): hoard all of the plastic. 

I started keeping plastic from takeout deliveries, the grocery store and Amazon packaging. But, even when trying not to accumulate a lot of plastic, one accumulates a lot of plastic. It piled up in our house faster than the classified documents at Mar-a-Lago.  

Soon my husband asked me if we were really keeping all this plastic. This was code for “when will you abandon this like you abandoned those miniature cardboard houses made from hoarding boxes?” (Side note: I abandoned my cardboard houses when I realized cardboard will biodegrade without poisoning the earth, generally, but plastic!!! Yes, I know deforestation. I can only hoard one thing at a time.)

So back to all that plastic filling up our house…I watched hours of YouTube craft videos to figure out what to do. I didn’t need 47 jugs turned into watering cans or 10,000 pencil holders. 

It was time to art it up. Per my daughter’s suggestion, I started painting the plastic, cutting it up and making mosaics like the one below (as part of my annual holiday book tree – see more on that here, if you’re interested) and this art piece of a tree (a mea culpa for abandoning saving the trees for plastic).

But I wanted to do something else. Something different. Mosaics were fun, but I wanted to try other ways to use plastic. 

I noticed a piece of plastic melted in our dishwasher, bending into a flower shape, and an idea began to bloom (wink wink). I decided to turn these discarded, forgotten objects people use up and throw away into an ode to female strength and resilience by embracing that age-old symbol for women — flower power. This also partially sated my insatiable anger over the overturning of Roe v Wade. 

Thus began my plan to melt plastic and shape it into flowers. In my dishwasher. 

Unbenknownst to me at the time, this approach released toxic chemicals into my house! My day job is science-based content editing, but I am writer at heart, not a scientist. What do I know about chemistry?

Luckily, I do know people who know things, and one of them gave me a helpful lecture on the dangers of melting plastic. (Suffice it to say, it can lead to many health complications!) 

Bye-bye plastic flower girl power art project, you say?

Hell no.

My smart, chemistry-inclined friend walked me through the precautions I needed to take without risking future respiratory and cancer diseases in the name of trying to save the planet (albeit on a small scale). Don’t burn it. Melt it at low temperatures. Do it in a well-ventilated area, preferably outside. And, very importantly, wear a respirator.

To replace the dishwasher, I grabbed an old toaster, tugged on the respirator and got to baking my plastic. 

So far, I am pleased with the results.

Now, only 999 flowers to go…. Stay tuned for the final product and other plastic reformation projects. Now that I’ve caught the bug (by looking like one in my respirator perhaps?) for recycled plastic art projects, the ideas are rolling in. Halloween decorations get ready for my plastic revolution! 

.

I read it minutes before a work call. The headline: “Supreme Court overturns Roe v. Wade, ending 50 years of federal abortion rights.” Ugly tears streamed down my face as I opened the zoom, making sure not to turn on my camera. I struggled to focus. All I could think was how I hoped that physicist who postulated we were all living in a simulation was right. At least it would mean none of this was real.

It’s dark thought, especially for me. Even as I’ve watched the US retract into celebrating rather than condemning prejudice and ignorance, I’ve hoped we would someday rise from the ashes of this current dystopia. The idea of wishing to be in a simulation meant I prefer a fake world to reality.

Can you blame me? Let’s be honest. Right now, reality sucks. This ruling doesn’t just set the clock back, it breaks the hands.

I could go on and on about how the system is rigged against the majority. I could rant about the Supreme Court being just another political entity ruled by bias under the guise of law. I could point out how the people who complain about freedom-impinging mask and vaccine mandates are the very people who support restricting freedoms for women (and any non-White, non-Christian minorities and the LGBTQ community, the list is long). Other people can rant these rants much more eloquently than me.

On a day like today, what I can do is document. This is a pretty significant moment for women and I’m a woman. I can record what this feels like. I can do that.

My best friend called me minutes before my work call. We blurted out phrases filled with disbelief and resignation. We said things like, “it’s official, we’re returning to the dark ages” or “and right on the heels of a slap-in-the-face gun law ruling.” Given we both live in southern states, we debated which one of us was “more screwed.”

We both knew this ruling was coming, but we also share an unrelenting positive, hopeful side we cannot seem to shake. We thought, maybe, just maybe…

I knew deep down there was no logical reason to hope because logic and reason are no longer part of the American zeitgeist. They’ve been replaced by people who put their fingers in their ears when someone tries to provide facts or truth.

Still, my hope isn’t something with wings, to paraphrase Emily Dickinson. My hope is a tired arm clasping a rock while the river rushes backward into the past. I’ve clung to that rock, hoping that more of America will wake up to the hate and discrimination spewing from the conservative minority like a volcano spreading its destructive, time-freezing ash.

It’s been a few hours now since I read the news about overturning Roe v. Wade. I keep thinking about how tenuous our freedoms are and how incredible it is that six people, who are nothing like me, get to determine my choices, or lack thereof.

Only injustice has been served today from people who call themselves justices. And with it, America, my once beloved, has let me down again. I don’t recognize her anymore. She was never perfect, but she used to make a zigzag motion of progress. Now she’s performed a complete reversal, a backward juggernaut toward fascism.

If someone is in charge of this simulation, that entity is clearly a sociopath. But we’re probably not in a simulation. This is a cold reality for women and we all know it won’t end here.

My best friend and I parted ways on the phone with so much left to lament. The brief five minutes we spoke contained the magnitude of the day and the utter futility of our own helplessness. It’s hard to move forward when the place you’re standing is constantly moving back.

Hanging up the phone left me feeling cold and empty. For a moment, together, we had a shared outrage. Now I’m just alone with this outrage and nowhere to point it. I honestly don’t know what to do next. I’ve written this blog. I haven’t written a blog post in well over a year. Reality sapped me of the spark that makes me want to create and write. Anger and frustration are so constant they’ve become the norm. It took something very extreme to tug me back here. I’d say for better or worse, but it is clearly for worse.

Maybe I’ll feel differently tomorrow. But, on this dark day, June 24, 2022, I’m steeling myself for the possible inevitability that the sociopath in charge of this simulation only rewards the oppressors with life, liberty and happiness.

__ATA.cmd.push(function() { __ATA.initDynamicSlot({ id: 'atatags-26942-62b6aa809c9a2', location: 120, formFactor: '001', label: { text: 'Advertisements', }, creative: { reportAd: { text: 'Report this ad', }, privacySettings: { text: 'Privacy', onClick: function() { window.__tcfapi && window.__tcfapi( 'showUi' ); }, } } }); });

It all began with a bookish dream.

K.L. Kranes, writer, book-lover, author of The Travelers (and its soon-to-be-released sequel The Gateway), and creator of unrealistic home improvement schemes, wanted to do one thing during the holiday season–create a holiday tree made of books.

Armed with only determination and what she thought was a large enough collection of literature, she began to build.

Her first “tree” attempt, using as footstool as a base, made it two feet before collapsing from unsteadiness. Undeterred by failure, K.L. started anew, gathering books from every corner, from under every bed to increase the mass and reinforce her tree. From this, she made a sturdy, solid base of only books. But she didn’t have enough books! (Was that possible?)

To complete the tree, she was forced to negotiate with her then pre-teen daughter for the release of her beloved Harry Potter books from their hiding place. Said daughter finally consented, under much pressure. With a warning that if anything happened to Harry, K.L. might find herself in serious trouble, the first “bookmas” tree, aka holiday book tree, was finally finished.

Although imperfect and a bit disproportional (aren’t we all?), the tree was a hit with family and friends.

Click to view slideshow.
Fast forward one year…

Not content to simply do the same thing twice, K.L. wanted to innovate. Her imagination created even crazier book-tree schemes—how to make it taller, wider, grander! Instead of choosing one of those options, she went for weirder. After seeing a store mannequin with fake green Christmas tree branches as a skirt, she knew just what to do. Also inspired by Leslie Knope’s wedding dress, she went to work.

After many, many grueling hours and days, bookmas tree 2.0 was born. This time the tree received a name, Merry Shelley, a nod to the author of Frankenstein. The amount of work to make the tree was herculean. Well, herculean was perhaps an exaggeration, but K.L.’s thighs burned from all the squatting and standing, a sign of either the massive undertaking of bookmas trees or her lack of physical fitness. She liked to pretend it was the first one. Still, the outcome was worth it.

Click to view slideshow.
By year three, K.L. was busy writing the sequel to The Travelers and needed to be practical.

It took too many books to make the tree and too much time. K.L. needed a faster way. After several (super embarrassing) failed attempts at bookmas tree 3.0 involving chicken wire, unicorn heads and plastic funeral vases, she got an assist from her hubby and settled on using an upside-down laundry hamper. Topped with a bow and white squirrel (an inside joke only those in her neighborhood would understand), K.L. completed the third installment of the bookmas tree in record time. (Not counting all those super embarrassing failed attempts to thwart the laws of Newtonian physics.)

Not wanting to neglect the mannequin that made bookmas tree 2.0 such a success, she also created a companion for the tree, a version of Merry Shelley called Merry-corn. She outfitted the mannequin with a unicorn head, a tree skirt and a top made of book pages, complete with an ascot. K.L. has a very strange imagination… (She also quickly learned some ideas should maybe stay ideas. Her Merry-corn creation seriously disturbed Cupcake, the frisky family dog. And her daughter looked at it like it might come alive and attack her in the middle of the night.)

Click to view slideshow.
Now in the fourth year of bookmas tree building, K.L. decided to do the smart thing. (Finally… it only took four years…)

[image error]She wanted to return to the mannequin design of bookmas tree 2.0, but with the sturdy, efficient construction of bookmas tree 3.0. However, the two designs were not compatible. To solve this problem, and avoid another embarrassing chicken wire/funeral vase blunder, she finally did the smart thing. She enlisted the help of someone with actual building skills, her father.

The former furniture builder and real-life MacGyver (seriously the man can fix anything with golf tees and duct tape), presented her with several elegant solutions to her bookmas tree problem.

[image error]

Together, the father-daughter team eventually landed on a variation of the laundry hamper combined with foam circles. They employed a new, more flexible, hamper base. Using a manual hand drill forged some time around 1900 (not joking), Pop Pop, as he is affectionately called in K.L.’s house, drilled a perfectly sized hole in all the separate pieces. The mannequin’s “leg” was threaded through the holes and the bookmas tree 4.0’s base was complete.

From there, the remaining construction of the tree went quickly, as evidenced by this time-lapse video that in no way trivializes or simplifies the actual work that went into making the book tree.

In honor of my one year anniversary of traveling to Singapore, here is a little blog I wrote but never published. I thought it might be fun to do so now.

I’ve never been alone in another country before.

As the water ripples toward me, this is what I’m thinking about. Any time I travel, I am always with someone, family, friends, co-workers. Right now, I have none of those people with me. In all of Singapore, there is not a single person who knows me as anything other than a guest at the hotel.

White verandas around the pool leave diagonal stripes of late afternoon sun across the water. Their roofs flip out like 1970s haircuts. A woman, a stranger to me, swims laps, bobbing up with a fish mouth for a gulp of air every few seconds. Steel and glass buildings sprout up in the background, on the verge of twinkling in the dusk.

I’m a little sad. My travel companion and best friend has just left. Tomorrow, I will spend one of my last days in Singapore completely alone.

I don’t mind being alone. I like the solitude. But after a week together exploring the country, it feels a little strange here without her. The trip has shifted from shared experiences to solo adventures, which admittedly scares me.

Tomorrow I plan to go to an island. Or rather, another island, since I’m currently on the main island of Singapore. Alone I’ll take an hour-long subway and bus ride to a rickety boat to an oasis vastly different from the sprawling city I’ve called home for the last week.

The idea of leaving the safety of the mainland terrifies me. That’s why I’m doing it. It’s my new motto. If it scares me, I have to do it.[image error]

The last day my best friend and I spent together still lingers. Each moment winding down to a final meal during a rainstorm. Emotions cycled through me, gratefulness, sadness, a bit of anxiety.

We wandered through Lucky Plaza, stuffed with souvenir shops. Spent more than probably should have been on the kinds of tchotchkes we ridicule in the states when tourists buy them. That is the double standard of being a traveler. The rules of the natives are different than the rules of the visitors. I need to remember that next time I see a tourist buy an I heart NY t-shirt.

As I sit here by the pool, an empty seat next to me, the bugs nip at my legs like they are trying to keep me company. They never nipped before when my friend and I sat here during our relaxing in-between moments. Maybe the overhead fan of our spot near the pool kept them away, a spot now taken by other people. Maybe something about being alone makes me notice them.

The pool glows with an alien blue-green at the bottom. The people in the water look like they’re swimming in uranium.

Tonight I’ll be sad and I’ll think of our past adventures.

Tomorrow I make my own.

The morning breaks through a crack in my blackout shades. I set my alarm to rise early. From experience, I know the heat of the afternoon sun in Singapore is oppressive, even for someone like me who loves the sticky sweetness of a humid summer.

There are many smaller islands to explore in Singapore. More than there is time for on this trip. The most popular include St. John’s Island, Lazarus Island or Sentoza Island, known for their beautiful beaches.

I’ve chosen to visit a different sort of island called Pulau Ubin, which means “Granite Island” in Malay, at the suggestion of a very friendly taxi driver. After asking about our time so far in Singapore, and hearing how we preferred the unusual to the typical tourist experiences, the taxi driver deemed Pulau Ubin the island most suited for us.

Unfortunately, there is no “us” anymore. So, I will go alone.

The Singapore mainland is a tribute to modernity and architectural beauty. Even the national library scrapes at the skies. People and cars fill the sidewalks and streets. It’s a place of orderly bustle.

Pulau Ubin is the opposite. With three main “roads,” only a few cars, mostly old vans for tours, and colorful one-level houses virtually untouched since mid-century, this verdant Singapore outpost promises a time-bending experience.[image error]

In my hotel room, I slather up with a thick amount of sunblock and another layer of bug spray, having been warned about both sun and bug exposure. Covered in sticky goo, I do my best not to sully the pristine bus and subway I must take to the Changi Point Ferry Terminal.

The boats to Pulau Ubin, called bumboats, provide the first inkling of how different the island will be from the mainland. The flat, box-shaped tail dips low into the water as we step down into the passenger area, making me instantly understand the very strict person-limit. Water splashes up through the open back and windows.

[image error]Across the blue waters, a weathered dock juts out from a shoreline tangled with bright green, leafy trees. My heart speeds up. I’ve done a small bit of research. Enough to know my first step should be to rent a bike and get in as much time around the island before the noon sun rises. Other than that, I don’t really know what to expect.

The town, if it could be called that, consists of upwards of ten different bike shops, a sign with a map, a visitor building and almost nothing else. Eschewing the busy shops right off the dock, I head further down the road to a quieter bike shop, mostly because I don’t like crowds. This turns out to be an unintentionally smart choice, I get a bike faster and cheaper than the earlier shops.

[image error]Maybe because I like to anthropomorphize objects or maybe because I’m lonely, I name the bike. She’s a rusty old thing with squeaky, unreliable brakes and thick padded seat. So I name her Rusty. Not very inventive, I know. But it’s already getting hot and my inventiveness is inversely related to the availability of air conditioning.

[image error]The black paved road, barely large enough for one car to fit, weaves out of the town, where I pass a few beach-side eateries boasting of fruity drinks and snacks. They have thin canvas roofs, open sides and plastic chairs. Collarless stray dogs roam about, mingling with the humans as if to say “this is our place too, don’t even try to make us leave.”

At my first choice, I opted to check out a butterfly sanctuary I’ve heard about. It’s uphill. I’m not thrilled about this but I persevere, the sun beating down on my shoulders. I’d love to say I had the photography skills to capture the beauty of the butterfly hill. I spend a large amount of time standing very still with my camera waiting for a butterfly to land just in the right spot to snap a picture or chasing after them as if they will somehow freeze in the moment so I can snap a shot. None of this happens. All of my pictures blur, reminding me nature doesn’t care about Instagram.

Perhaps neither should I.

I venture forward toward a temple, curious to see if religion looks any different in a place where there are more trees than people. Birds chirp on repeat as I leave my bike next to the road and approach on foot. Their sound is an incessant, yet somehow soothing, roll into a shriek.

A faded mural runs up the wall as I walk up the incline. A shrine awaits at the center of an open room. I am reluctant to approach, afraid I might disturb something more ancient than me. Instead, I look from afar, watching smoke trickle from some unseen vessel.

This place could be anywhere. There is nothing here that speaks to the modern world. If not for the cement, I could have stepped back in time 400 years.

I take out my phone to snap a few pictures. It feels wrong. Phones don’t belong on this island. You should be required to leave them in the boat. If you’re a time traveler, you can’t sully the past with modern technology, it’s not right.

On tiptoes, I return to my bike with a sense of quiet settling around me, a peacefulness.

The prospect of a steep decline to my left sends me back to the crossroads, where this time I choose the other direction, which promises a rougher trail and more jungle.

The verdant leaves crush against the path the further I go. The pavement turns to mud and sand. I pass a wetland filled with the largest pond fronts I’ve ever seen. The air smells like, well nothing, except the chlorophyll of the leaves.

Inside the thick brambles, I spot the occasional sun-dappled house through the trees, with flat roofs and clothes hanging from the eaves, reminding me this isn’t just a tourist destination, people live here. I wonder what makes people decide to live a 15-minute boat ride from a vast, sleek city. They chose this remote place, almost lost to time.

As I near the shore the track turns so thick my tire gets stuck and I fall off my bike. This is no surprise since it’s true you always remember how to ride a bike, but you don’t always remember how to ride it well. And Rusty is no pristine ten-speed. She aches with every push, like an old woman walking up the stairs. But, she also forces me to take my time, as if saying to me “why be in a hurry?”

Rusty strands me at a small peninsula. A group of children, clearly there for a school trip, giggle as they walk by.  I walk out on the peninsula and peer into the vast ocean. It reminds me this island is a speck in the world and I am a speck on the island. Places like this make me appreciate the insignificance of life, which somehow makes it feel more precious.

[image error]

On my way back to the crossroads, I stop at a house-turned-museum, where tourists can experience the type of house and living on the island from 50 years ago, the type that hasn’t seemed to change much. I wonder, ignorantly, if the people here have televisions and sort of hope that they don’t.

There is something about this place, something innocent and beautiful as if the jungle keeps the rest of the horrors at bay. I’m romanticizing. I know that. I’m sure the people who live here have problems like everyone else. But the peacefulness of the place takes over the cells in my body, relaxing them one moment at a time.

The heat becomes too much to bear. I’ve finished my bottle of water and my body tells me another won’t give me energy. I’ve never sweat so much in my life. I didn’t even think myself capable.

I return the bike and head back to the boat dock, slumping into my seat on the boat. The wake splashes against the back, bobbing as we leave. The island gets smaller. I lean my head on the ledge and watch the shoreline become a thin line in the distance, holding onto a feeling I don’t quite understand yet. Maybe I never will.

 

Thanks to a certain TV show with an implausible, sudden mass murder, there has been much focus on endings lately. (Plus it’s that time of year – graduation time – so endings seem a fitting topic.)

The Game of Thrones (aka, GoT) ending is still too raw for me to discuss. I’ll just rant for 6,000 words and say all the same things everyone else said (because they’re true!) Too rushed. Total “mean girls” vibe with the remaining women. Killing Missandei at all! No believable build up to the “mad queen” and I don’t care how many “Easter eggs” the showrunners dropped foreshadowing it. Don’t get me started on Jamie going back to Circei. On that note, don’t get me started on Ser Brienne of Tarth writing Jamie’s story ending. Write your own story girl! There are enough dudes in that book! YOU were a badass. And, the final straw…Bran? Bran??!!! So. Many. Things.

OK. Deep breath. I’m over it. I totally am. I swear… I’m not still melting down over this even after several weeks distance. I’m not.

[image error]

With that out of my system, I started to think about books (because they make me feel better).

Firstly, I will admit I never read the George R. R. Martin books. I know. I know.

My husband read them and they “broke him” as a reader (in that they were so dense he just wanted it to be over.) I seriously think he didn’t pick up another book for a year. That made me a bit afraid of them.

That said, given the disappointment that was season 8, part of me wants to read the books now with the hope that Martin will end the story in a more satisfactory way (or at least make the ending believable.) The book is always better right? They always have a better ending, right?

Or do they?

I wondered if I’d ever read any books or books series with such huge falls from grace as GoT. I’m thinking of stories I absolutely loved and then at the end basically did a WTF? A few came to mind.

Let me be clear. Writing is hard. Creating compelling stories is hard. The people who wrote these books (and the GoT showrunners) gave us 95% awesomeness. A poorly-conceived or executed ending couldn’t ruin the magic of the rest of the story.

That’s why I’m not calling these books or series with bad endings. I’m calling these: books I still love (and have re-read or would read again) despite their flawed endings.

Just goes to show you, even in imperfection there is greatness.

Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell

[image error]I loved this book. Like LOOOVED this book. While reading it, I gushed to my friends and family about the story of an unlikely pair who falls in love while riding the bus to school every day. It plucked every heartstring.

Then I came to the last ten-ish pages, which I won’t spoil. Casting my eyes over those lines, my brain went…Rainbow Rowell, that was not how you ended this otherwise incredible story, is it?

To be fair, I’m not sure she could have taken the plot in a different direction. But, like GoT, it felt rushed. I have no problem with stories that do not end wrapped in neat metaphorical bows, but the depth and attention paid to the characters and their love story felt shortchanged by the ending.

The ending, despite its flaws, cannot ruin such a wonderful book. I’d still recommend it!

The Ship Beyond Time by Heidi Hellig

[image error]The Ship Beyond Time is a sequel to Hellig’s first book The Girl from Everywhere about a girl and her father who can navigate through time in a ship using maps from different eras. It’s a really unique, interesting premise. I thought the first book was very well done. I enjoyed the characters, the mythology, the relationships.

While I found the twists and turns of her second book in the series nearly as enjoyable, the end was a bit muddled and confusing for me, almost forced. Time travel (and trying to change the past) is never easy in storytelling. Hellig gave herself some leeway by adding in fantasy realms and alternate worlds, but the entire explanation, in the end, didn’t quite click. Even with that, I really enjoyed the book.

I think someone needs to draw me a map of the ending, though.

All book lovers experience “book logic.” You know what I mean. It’s the part of the night where you do that calculation in your head. If I read one more chapter I can go to bed by 1 am and that leaves about 6 hours of sleep. The calculation leads to a rationalization. Six hours is enough sleep. Sure they say we should all get eight, but what do “they” know. I feel perfectly fine with six or five even, maybe I could read two more chapters… 

It’s hard to argue with book logic.[image error]Not all books make me want to stay up late reading. And that is OK because I am already an insomniac without the book obsession so I need books that aren’t edge-of-your-seat page turners. Those books are great too. But there are some books that take my calculation/rationalizations to a new level of ridiculousness. [image error]If I could name one author who keeps me up the most, it would be Cassandra Clare. Those damn Shadowhunter books are like a whirlpool sucking me down into the depths of sleeplessness with their twisty plots about vampire, fairies, werewolves and demon-hunters and divinely wicked sardonic characters.There are two reasons why I forgo a hard copy book for a kindle book. 1) Expediency when I travel (only if my shoulder hurts because of all the books in my carry-on) and 2) when I can’t possibly wait 8 hours until the bookstore opens so I can go get the latest book.Cassandra Clare’s books fall into the latter category for me. When I finished the first book in the Mortal Instruments series, I immediately downloaded and started reading the next one. I finished all six books in a very, very short time. Along with my daughter, I even dressed up as a shadowhunter for our local ComicCon. (Note: tattoos, black boots and all black…it was short notice. The purse wasn’t really on-trend for shadowhunters, but what can you do? And, yes, I am WELL over the age of 20 and 30. Don’t judge me.

There were three things that told me I’d stayed away from blogging too long.

1. I’d started thinking about blogging rather than sleeping again.

Me trying to sleep at night:

[image error]

2. My family kept asking me “when is the last time you blogged?”

Anytime anyone starts a sentence with “when’s the last time you you…”, pay attention.

3. I couldn’t remember how to use WordPress!

It was like that dream where you forget your locker combination on the first day of school. I logged on to WordPress and could not remember how to start a blog. This was no a metaphorical writer’s block. No, this was in the literal “how do I get that view in WordPress where I can start typing in an actual blog again???” (FYI, for me it was NOT like riding a bike.)

Why did I stop blogging in the first place?

It happened slowly. I went three days without blogging. Then I went a week. Then two weeks, which turned into a month and then two months. I kept reading and following other blogs, but not to the same degree. It was like slowly losing touch with a friend for no reason. You just grow apart. Life gets in the way.

I made no active decision to stop blogging. But, if I’m being honest, at the time I also didn’t miss it.

Here’s what I did instead of blogging.

1. I finished the first draft of a new book.

[image error]

2. I helped my parents move out of the house they lived in for most of my life. (During the move, I uncovered a giant tub full of writing from when I was a kid and some hilarious pictures of me as a child. Apparently, I rocked the bang look for quite some time. Plus, I think I make a decent (not scary) clown. #savetheclowns #makeclownsnotscaryagain!)

[image error]

3. I worked.

4. I traveled. (Note: Still apparently rockin’ the bang look. Never realized I had such an affinity toward it…)

[image error]

5. I spent more time with my family.

6. I made no progress on becoming a better photographer. (Thank my daughter’s post-photo production prowess for the fact that any pictures in this blog are even viewable.) BUT I read a lot of books. (Again, apologies for the terrible picture. Seriously – this is why I could never be a social media maven. I have no photography skills AT ALL!)

[image error]

Why am I back to blogging?

When reading the new book Educated by Tara Westover, I came across a quote from Virginia Woolf that really resonated with me.

“I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don’t have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.”

-Virginia Woolf

When I stopped blogging, I didn’t know why. I am not someone who often understands her emotions and motivations in the moment. I need time to digest. (Sometimes days, sometimes years).

With a little distance, I’ve come to understand blogging had started to feel like a chore. And I never want writing to feel like a chore. Writing is my escape. It always has been.

As I think back, I stopped blogging as a way to preserve the part of me who loves to write because if I lost her or became disillusioned with her, I’m not sure I’d be me anymore. (I know, so dramatic!)

The notebooks full of writing I found in my parents basement reminded me how writing has always been a core part of me. Those pages dated back to first grade when I didn’t care if spelled words like they sounded (rumiging, dasaster). (I wish I could say I’m a better speller but I’m kind of like the Lois Lane of writing – a writer and editor who can’t spell. Oh the irony. Thank goodness for that squiggly red line under words!) When I was a kid, I wrote for no other reason than because I loved it.

[image error]

Somewhere between drafting novels, Twitter pitch fests, writing for my job and blogging, I misplaced my love of writing. To find it again, I had to be the rumiging/dasaster girl again. I had to get back to the story and not the chore.

And I did that. I wrote a new novel with no other goal other than writing it. It felt great. As I emerged from the novel writing cocoon, the question my family kept asking me – when is the last time you blogged – stopped making me sigh with annoyance and started making me nostalgic.

My Not-So-Exciting Return to Blogging

With a renewed excitement for writing, I got onto WordPress and fumbled through the clicks and tabs, reorienting myself. I won’t pretend like blogging came back to me naturally. This whole blog entry had (and probably still has) awkward stops and starts as I try to get back into the writing style again.

The first day of school after a summer break sensation permeated every period and sentence return. When I opened WordPress I again, I felt as if I were standing in the shadow of a school doorway swimming with uncertainty and self-doubt. (You know, the basic substance that makes up writers). My stomach knotted and twisted with questions. Will they like me? Will they think I’m dumb? Will they judge me for my misspellings? Will anyone even read this far into the blog?

Slowly, though, as I moved and progressed through the blog entry, my fingers became more steady, the words rolled out easier.

Before writing this return to blogging blog, I delved into advice columns such as “how to make a blogging comeback.” Quickly, I realized, there was no flashy comeback for me. I’m not some high profile blogger. I like to write about writing and books and travel (and the things in between). Not very flashy.

There is no big “hey! I’m back!” moment in this blog. That’s not really me. My guess is very few people even realized I’d disappeared from the blog-o-sphere.

So, with that, hi again (or hi for the first time). I hope you come back.

Advertisements

Forget Valentine’s Day, a “holiday” (extra air quotes needed) that needlessly makes those without a significant other feel lesser and makes those with a significant other feel obligated to buy teddy bears and chocolates.

[image error]No thank you! I’ve never been a fan of Valentine’s Day. Instead, I much prefer its more female and friend-focused counterpart, which comes the day before on February 13, GALENTINE’S DAY!

What is Galentine’s Day?

Never heard of Galentine’s Day? Well, let me introduce you to the wonderful TV-created holiday. (I will take a TV-created holiday over a Hallmark one any day of the week. Yay Festivus!!)

During a 2010 episode of the great comedy, Parks and Recreation, the perpetual ray of bright sunshine and waffle-loving Leslie Knope decided it was time to celebrate something very important – friendship. She gathered together her best gal-friends for brunch and games. And thus Galentine’s Day was born.

“Every February 13, my ladyfriends and I leave our husbands and our boyfriends at home, and we just come and kick it, breakfast-style. Ladies celebrating ladies. It’s like Lilith Fair, minus the angst. Plus frittatas.”

– Leslie Knope, Parks and Recreation

The creators of Parks and Recreation may not have known their fictional holiday would become so popular, but it has. On February 13th Galentine’s Day memes flood Facebook and Twitter. (I’m a culprit. I think Galentine’s Day is a fantastic holiday.)

[image error]

In honor of the wonderful holiday, here are some great gal-pal themed books to help you celebrate!

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants by Anne Brashares

[image error]

The quintessential girlfriend book, Sisterhood celebrates the bonds of friendship, which traverse time, geography and flout the laws of established clothing sizes. One pair of pants represents a bond that distance cannot break. How very Galentine!

Beaches by Iris R. Dart

[image error]

Yes, this is a movie that made me cry a million times and call my best friend whenever I watched it. That famous movie is also based on a book! Cee Cee and Bertie meet as children in Atlantic City and over the next thirty years their friendship bends and stretches, but never breaks. Time to break out the tissues again…

The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan

[image error]

The novel explores the friendships of four immigrant Chinese women who form a mahjong group. Similar to a book club experience, mahjong turns into something so much more. Their game time grows into venue for sharing stories, supporting other and solidifying friendships.

Truthwitch by Susan Dennard

[image error]

For you fantasy YA fans out there who want to read a book where two best girlfriends take on the patriarchy, well look no further than Truthwitch. Although a little slow at the start, there is no doubt the best part of this book is the bond between besties Safiya and Iseult.

Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells

[image error]

Having “sisterhood” in the title of a book is probably a good clue for a story about female friendships. The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood is no exception. The book follows a group of friends, their bond forged in childhood, who come to the aid of one of their own Ya-Ya sisters, struggling to fix her bond with her daughter. Galentines forever!

Lady Midnight by Cassandra Clare

[image error]

Because no list for me is complete without a Shadowhunters book… Cassandra Clare often focuses on romance over friendship in her books, especially when it comes to females. (In her first Shadowhunter book, City of Bones, there was initially a very catty undertone to the female friendships that I personally didn’t like, although she corrected it in the later books in the series.) But, from the outset, Clare got it right in Lady Midnight. Emma and Cristina’s friendship is solid and unbreakable with the pair never dissolving into pettiness or ridiculous competition. Definitely a good example of Galentines!

Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell

[image error]

Sure Cath and Regean don’t have a conventional galentine friendship or really a friendship at all at the start of the book. However, what makes this book galentine worthy is the progression of their relationship. These two opposites learn to appreciate and care about one another, showing us that friendships can come in unlikely places and with unlikely people.

The Color Purple by Alice Walker

[image error]

The power of female friendship is at the heart of this book about the abuse and humiliation of African American women in the early 1900s at the hands of men and society. In the books, the friendships between women serve as a form of discovery and redemption, helping the women find their strength, voice and identity. The Color Purpose is a weighty, powerful galentine day book.

Anyone else of books about female friendship they love for Galentine’s Day?

Advertisements

By the reaction to Marie Kondo’s approach to weeding out the excess material things in life, including books, you’d think she suggested a Fahrenheit 451-level assault on literature. I have never read Kondo’s book or watched her show. (And, I was just struck by the odd irony of getting rid of books based on something that’s in a book…) That doesn’t mean friends and the internet have not educated me on her general approach: get rid of things that don’t bring you joy.

First, I appreciate her concept in general. I understand how the simplicity of her approach can help many people looking to de-clutter their lives. If it were up to me, 50% of my house would go in the trash. In fact, I dream of the day when I jettison nearly all my possessions (except books) and move into a tiny house. In my mind, my tiny house looks something like these:

However, I am not a single lady and exist as part of a lovely, but semi-hoarding, family (not REALLY but they do like to keep their stuff) and the whole process of forcing them to get rid of “things” is just not worth the effort.

This is all to say, I am not averse to Kondo’s “toss it!” approach. Like many people I have seen and read about, though, I do take issue with applying this method to books.

[image error]In case you haven’t heard about Marie Kondo yet, she wrote a book called The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, which sold really, really well. Soon everyone was hugging their sweaters to determine whether they stay in the closet or get sent to a donation bin. Followers of Kondo’s tidying principles even call themselves Konverts. (Honestly, that’s a little cult-y and creepy.) Netflix followed up by giving her a show called “Tidying Up With Marie Kondo” where she demonstrates how to put the “KonMari method” into action.

[image error] The basic principle of her method is this: Keep only what “sparks joy,” discard everything else, and assign a home for everything within your home.

Sounds simple and logical. Well, not for everyone.

What “sparked” such outrage among the book-lovers of the world? Well, in one episode of her Netflix show episodes Kondo says, “Take every single book into your hands and see if it sparks joy for you.” Essentially, if it doesn’t, get rid of it. This was such an outrageous concept several media outlets weighed in on the matter.

Based on the backlash, I imagine Kondo has since tried to clarify her stance (because what kind of monster would tell people to throw out books???). That said, the general premise of her method strikes me as a bit too oversimplified to apply to every single aspect of life. Applying the “spark joy” method to books devalues the purpose and the underlying intellectual fulfillment of reading.

As an avid reader and collector of literature, I have many books that don’t “spark joy.” For example, Night by Eli Wiesel or What is the What by Dave Eggers are not books I look at on my shelf and think “wow,  joyful.” (If either of those books spark joy in you, there is something deeply, deeply wrong.) Still, I would never get rid of such incredibly impactful pieces of literature. Both had a profound effect on my understanding of humanity and the world. They are extremely important to me and I would never, ever throw them out (or give them away.)

The following are a few other examples of books that do not spark joy in me, but I would never toss away for reasons that are way more complicated than the KonMari method seems to allow for.

The Years of Lyndon Johnson (4 Book Series) by Robert A. Caro

Of all the past presidents, other than Obama, I find Lyndon B. Johnson the most fascinating. (Before 2016, he may have held the title of most crass and egomaniacal president. Pretty sure he has now lost that mantle.) I realize he is a strange choice. However, Johnson was a unique man and one of the most effective legislators of all time during his tenure in Congress. Although complicated and interesting, reading about him did not spark joy. Rather, the books, which are big enough to serve as brick foundations for a house, represents a significant and in-depth growth in my knowledge of history and politics. Again, I’d never toss them.

Ulysses by James Joyce

This book sits on my shelf with a bookmark about one-third of the way through. I did not finish it or even come close. Having loved the Odyssey, I was excited to dive into this book, once called “the most prominent landmark in modernist literature.” The partially read tome definitely does not spark joy in me. Instead, a sort of angry annoyance overwhelms me when my eyes flit across the spine, both at myself and at the book. Apparently, I am not smart enough to “get” this book and I kind of like the reminder I am not smart enough to get this book. Ulysses existence on my bookshelf humbles me whenever old sensations of lit snobbery brew in my mind. It may not spark joy, but there is no way I’m tossing that book. It’s my white whale in a way…

Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson

This book was my first heartbreak. I remember crying uncontrollably when reading the end for the first time as a child. When I re-read it as an adult, I had the same tearful reaction. No, joy was not felt in response to this middle-grade classic. However, it sparked much stronger emotions and an appreciation for friendships, love and life.

I suppose my point is, while the KonMari method provides a simple means for streamlining your life, sometimes we can oversimplify and lose important nuances. And, most importantly, perhaps we should not weigh every piece of your life on the same scale.

Lastly, before someone says you can read these books on a Kindle. I’m sorry, I just prefer reading and owning real books. THAT brings me joy.

Let’s chat: Anyone else have opinions on Kondo’s “sparking joy” approach to life and books?

Advertisements

You know you’re lucky when you have a best friend who will spend half of a vacation day wandering around a library with you in Singapore.

My own family wouldn’t even do this. My husband would speed walk up the escalators, through the exhibits, then go sit on a bench and read his phone. To be fair, my husband’s only type of walking is speed walking thanks to his NYC roots. To maintain pace with his ambulatory-challenged tiny wife, he must take uncomfortable half-steps. As for my teenage daughter, she might encourage a visit to a library, but after a while, her shoulders would droop, she’d give a few shrugs and finally admit she’s bored. (Sorry family, this is just true. See every museum we have ever been to ever as evidence.) Watching my family slug through an activity sucks all the fun out of it. 

BUT, my best friend, she’s different. While not nearly as book-crazed as me, she appreciates all things literary and, like me, can find the fun in pretty much anything. I think she may have even been the one to suggest we go to the library! I can’t remember, those kinds of details are not the kind that stick in my mind. The details that stuck with me about that day were the following.

[image error]It was hot (shocker!). The city-state of Singapore sits right on the edge of the equator so hot is a mainstay. 

The prior day we spent time braving the heat and exploring several of Singapore’s unique neighborhoods in search of bookstores and a gluten-free bakery. We found both in the quaint neighborhood of Tiong Bahru, where we visited the children’s book focused Woods in the Books and the more traditional indie bookstore, BooksActually, which I found a rather inspirational place. 

What made BooksActually so special wasn’t just the book vending machine out front or the adorable cat or the fact it felt like someone spread a sepia-toned fog across the entire store, it was that the store sold on both popular and obscure literature from the region. And, even more amazingly, it also served as a publisher. Along one whole wall ran an entire section of books stamped with the publishing name of BooksActually.

While it felt like five minutes to me, we probably spent over an hour in the bookstore as I tried to distill down my purchases to something I could manage to fit in my suitcase. I finally settled on a mix of BooksActually publications and other books I’d never heard of before. 

Afterward, we wound down the narrow streets to Tiann’s Bakery where I indulged in waffles with chocolate and kaya gelato. (Kaya is typically described as a coconut jam and spread on the Singapore favorite, Kaya Toast. Since gluten-free kaya toast isn’t easy to find, this was my chance to try the Singapore sweet for myself! It was delicious!)

[image error]

The next day we continued our literary adventures and visited the Singapore National Library, a soaring tower of glass opening up to the Singapore skyline. This was no mothball, carpeted library. The modern architecture seemed to reflect an understanding that literature lifts us into the clouds.

Winding up the escalator we first came upon an exhibit, one of many we’d find enclosed in the glass walls. It embodied what would become one of my favorite things about Singapore: diversity. The exhibit covered the history of literature across cultures and was written in numerous languages. My best friend and I learned about writers we’ve never heard of and sometimes simply stared at the beauty of languages we couldn’t read.

Toward the upper levels of the library, we found another engrossing exhibit, this one on the history of advertising in Singapore, starting in the earliest days of snake oil salesman style medicine and moving into modern day. The exhibit juxtaposed the uniqueness of Singapore with the universality of certain changes in global history, such as the impact of the introduction of the car, or music or television.

In Singapore, you can always count on a respite of green space no matter where you are. The verdant lushness of the equatorial city-state crops up even in the most over-developed, high-tech and bustling areas. The library is no exception. Suddenly tired of the hum of air conditioning and missing the squeeze of the hot, humid air, we stopped outside to take in the views and sit among the beautiful greenery of one of the libraries terrace gardens.

For our last library adventure, we went in search of a rumor, a fable about glass enclosures that bubble out from the side of the highest part of the library. A transparent cubby where readers can climb inside, ensconced in glass, and cozy up as if floating in the sky with a book. (Not that I would ever do this because I am deathly afraid of heights, but I’d be more than happy to take a picture of my much braver best friend doing it!) For some reason, we decided it must be on the mystical top floor. A floor we knew existed from the map but was not accessible via the main library elevators.

Taking the alternative option, the handy escalators, we tried another route, only to find the top level roped off. Refusing to give up, we wandered around the level below, searching for a hidden stairwell and stumbled upon instead a small, seemingly secret elevator in an area that appeared decisively off-limits to public visitors. Unfortunately, no amount of button pressing could get the elevator to stop on our floor or take us up to the next.

Sadly, we never found our literary El Dorado, but we had fun trying. We ended the day, our last together in Singapore, sitting under an umbrella and sipping cocktails at a converted convent in a wonderful rainstorm. Only in Singapore….

After that, my best friend boarded a plane and I sat alone poolside, planning a trip to a far off, remote island supposedly lost to time….but that is for another blog….

Advertisements