This past weekend, Joelly & I travelled to my home state and met up with my parents in Hyde Park. We started at the Art Center, where over 7,500 sketchbooks from around the world were hanging out together. After getting our very own Brooklyn Art Library cards, we were able to check out sketchbooks by theme or artist name and peruse through their pages. I checked out my own sketchbook for a brief reunion.

I must say, it was pretty darn neat to see the whole concept of the sketchbook project become tangible, on shelves and in the hands of other enthusiastic participants and patrons, collected momentarily by a common interest. We met some cool folks, and we also created some tour mail to be shipped out to future sketchbook exhibits (some which my friends in far-away states will be at!)

After exploring the rest of the Art Center, we were satisfied with Chicago-style pizza at Giordano’s, and then walked a few blocks down to see the Frank Lloyd Wright Robie House. (I must confess, I knew about this house from kid lit– Blue Balliett’s Wright 3).

Hyde Park is a lovely neighborhood, and we thoroughly enjoyed exploring it. After some more catching up over Frappy Hour at Starbucks, we headed back home, with thoughts of next year’s sketchbook already forming…

[for more sketchbook exhibit pics, check the fb].

Confession: The part of me that loves YA literature, loves nostalgia, and loves all things girl-hood, definitely fell in love with Ann Brashare’s Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants series. Granted, I actually was a teenager when I was first introduced to the books (and subsequent feel-good feature films). I guess I appreciated that Brashares created a quality series with a quality message about girls/growing up/friendship/real life, vs. the typical surfacey shallow stuff that seems to pop up a lot. I appreciated that she gave the world of youthful readers some real female characters to root for, and that she blended the lighter side of youth and carefree boldness with the deeper stuff growing up deals with, too.

Anyway. When Brashares wrote a “ten years later” sort of sequel for the sisterhood, I was skeptical but still curious, so I downloaded the e-book (my less committed form of commitment). Without giving away too much, a major plot twist (albeit slightly misleading, I now know), left me disappointed enough to dismiss the book about a third of the way through. It sat in my nook shelf, collecting what I’ll call the digital form of dust known to the abandoned ones.

Months later, between a background sense of guilt I feel for the books I’ve rejected, mixed with a sort of vague New Year’s resolution to better keep track of my book piles (and not amass new ones until I pay more attention to the ones I’ve already got), I re-visited a few old books that I’d begun at one point and then for one reason or another, never finished. Among them was Sisterhood Everlasting, and shortly after making it past the halfway point, the story picked up and startled pulling itself together. The major plot twist revealed itself as much less twisted.

By the end, I had to admit I was glad I’d stuck it out with the sisterhood. Their stories inevitably cause you to revisit your own youth and nostalgia, your roots and how you’ve grown and altered since then. Interestingly, I was closer to the age of the girls in book one when I read through their younger years, and now I’m closer to their age in the follow-up reunion book. Although I wouldn’t place this series on the level of profound “litty” kind of literature, I must say there’s something about that particular sisterhood and their proverbial traveling pants that certainly stays with you.

An exquisite, blistering debut novel.

Three brothers tear their way through childhood— smashing tomatoes all over each other, building kites from trash, hiding out when their parents do battle, tiptoeing around the house as their mother sleeps off her graveyard shift. Paps and Ma are from Brooklyn—he’s Puerto Rican, she’s white—and their love is a serious, dangerous thing that makes and unmakes a family many times.

Life in this family is fierce and absorbing, full of chaos and heartbreak and the euphoria of belonging completely to one another. From the intense familial unity felt by a child to the profound alienation he endures as he begins to see the world, this beautiful novel reinvents the coming-of-age story in a way that is sly and punch-in-the-stomach powerful.

Written in magical language with unforgettable images, this is a stunning exploration of the viscerally charged landscape of growing up, how deeply we are formed by our earliest bonds, and how we are ultimately propelled at escape velocity toward our futures.”

[source]

My friend Ashley and I enjoyed a glimpse of re-living the college life the other evening at Butler University, where we attended a Visiting Writers Series session with author Jhumpa Lahiri. The sweet lady sitting next to me asked what year I was in, and although I informed her I was already a graduate, though not of this school, I had to grin because Ashley and I had just been joking about how it was way too easy for us to blend in as college students. In fact, we even ate their food and drank their coffee and no one asked questions. Being on campus, we couldn’t help but feel nostalgic towards days of casual clothes and laid-back afternoons, always dining with friends, staying up late, and hanging out between classes. The college atmosphere just can’t be re-created.

Although I don’t necessarily miss all of the homework and studying, I have to say I still love acquiring certain bits of learning. For instance, when authors speak, I take notes, wanting to glean as much as possible from the inspiration they impart. Ms. Lahiri was quite lovely on all fronts, and I’m so glad I got to see her speak and hear her read from both old work and new. I loved her novel, The Namesake–(although the film was a bit of a stretch)–and speaking of college, I actually wrote a Lit. Crit. paper on Lahiri’s short story, “Interpreter of Maladies,” which I then presented at a Sigma Tau Delta conference. Ah, memoirs of an English major.

I’m currently diving back into the other stories collected in Interpreter of Maladies (which won the Pulitzer) and remembering how much I like her style, which is understated yet telling at the same time. One of my favorite things she said in the Q & A session was that writing detail is “like being in charge of a dream…. Something is back there and waiting for the fog to lift.” I like this image and hope it will stay with me.

Post script: Here’s a semi-recent New Yorker article written by Lahiri of her own memories and insights of youth, identity, and her journey into life as a writer: Trading Stories.

Glaciers is filled with kaleidoscopic pleasures. Using prose as clear as pure, cold air, Alexis Smith moves the narrative vertically as well as horizontally, each ticking minute yielding more insights into a young woman’s life. The past, present, and imaginary future stream into beautifully unstable geometries. Line by line, in and out of time, this is a haunted, joyful, beautiful book– a true gift.”

–Karen Russell, author of Swamplandia!

Wow. I loved this small treasure of a story, with incredible language and poetic pacing, that gave me a feeling I wish I could freeze in place.

I confess, I was skeptical. Just as I was with Harry Potter and any other fastly trendy young adult series throwing their covers and following industries in my discerning face. I can’t say that I owe any apology statements to a certain vampire series; however, with Suzanne Collins’ Hunger Games trilogy, I certainly do. I totally misjudged its extreme premise, when in fact, I actually did enjoy reading books about kids fighting to the death in a dystopian future. Who knew?

What’s more, is I loved the movie enough to see twice (first, on opening night for the IMAX experience, standing in a long line behind screaming middle school girls donning Peeta T-shirts and Mockingjay tote bags; second, at the drive-in, perfectly and fittingly surrounded by nothing but woods).

I found myself totally taken with the atmosphere created in these stories, the plot that keeps you always guessing, always cheering for the girl on fire and the boy with the bread (Yes, I’m Team Peeta, and the fact that movie Gale looked like a 35-year old Career Tribute (from the Seam?) only helped solidify my rooting for Bread Boy).

One last thought: whilst discussing the books with friends, there was at one point an agreeance that the second and third books started off too slowly. Later, it occurred to me how perhaps our expectations when reading YA books of this sort (typically intended to be kept at a fast page-turning pace) are disappointed when not kept at that level for the majority of the reading experience? I had to ask myself, what do I mean when I say “slow pace” in regards to YA plot vs. adult literary plot, which often barely holds a plot at all? Isn’t it a bit funny that with the latter breed, the less plot there is, the more profound we feel? As though spending whole pages describing the particular ambience of air inside a room makes us feel smarter, while coming to a long pause in YA action only makes us impatient? I realize I’m comparing two different fruits here, but I still found this observation interesting, as I am a lover of both kinds.

Although Google kindly reminded me of the first official day of spring, it’s already been feeling like summer. Either way, it was time to put away the last of the crimson-and-cream accents left hanging around from the winter holidays, and replace them with a fresher palette. Since our apartment provides minimal storage space, I only have room to save a few seasonal items for the year. Still, I don’t mind the challenge to get creative with other items I already have to add to the next arrangement. Today I spent the early afternoon dressing the mantle in its springtime attire, complete with happy pinwheels and miniature birds’ nests.

Sidenote: Our inherited orange-and-cream couch has defaulted as the main piece in which all other home decor must accentuate. Surprisingly, winter is the only season in which orange accents can prove to be a challenge. Since fall is the favorite, it’s no problemo to get the whole home looking like an instant autumnal landscape, revolving around hues of burnt pumpkin and squash. Luckily, the warmer months have also learned to embrace the orange quite nicely, making this exceptionally sunny springtime a bit brighter on the inside, too.

Look what came in the mail from my oh-so-thoughtful Hannah friend!

The back of the mug lists the scores for the whole Scrabble alphabet, and the mug’s bottom is stamped with a double letter score. I totally love it (obvs) and am adding it to my work desk mug collection for my daily dose of java.

My Scrabble mug also came with a sweet Marjolein Bastin card. My mom loves M.B.’s nature-y paintings, and I think I used to steal her stationery. Anyway, yay for getting fun things in the mail! Thanks again to my dear friend Hannah, who by the way, has recently started her own blog, so you should probably check it out!

Seeing authors speak is among my favorite things. In fact, if I were to compose my own Sound-of-Music version of “My Favorite Things,” it might include a line like, “Raindrops on windows and good books worth reading, Mittens on kittens and writers worth meeting… (these are a few of my favorite things).

This week, I was quite beside myself because I got to meet Nicole Krauss, the author of my most favorite novel, The History of Love. Ms. Krauss is elegant in a simple way, with an audiobook voice (the good kind). Listening to her speak and share, I just wanted to linger there in that sound. As part of Butler University’s Visiting Writers series, after the final Q & A time came the chance for book signing. My husband, friends & I were near first in line, as we had come with our own copies while others bought their books. Thus, I was not given much time to think about what on earth I could say to Ms. Krauss, whose words had certainly impacted me to a depth of meaning that’s hard to express in one brief encounter.

I should mention here that this situation was not a new one. Working in a library had provided a handful of similar opportunities, where I felt a sort of attachment to even writers I had not heard of before, and wanted desperately to separate myself from the rest of the audience, especially the ones who raised their hands with pretentious questions. Please, I’d beg of them, Pipe down! It’s not about you. I wanted only to listen to the words of the writer– it was their moment.

The whole concept of autographing is troubling to me. Yes, it’s nice to have a respected name written in indelible ink, part nostalgia and part evidence that you were, at one point, in the same room as this respected person, sharing the same air.

On the other hand, it feels cheap in a way; the only way to share face time with the Honored Guest is the same way as anyone else. We aren’t as much individuals as we are fans. And we’re all the number one fan, right?

I realize that there are others out there who also claim The History of Love as theirs–the one piece of literature that transformed their life and thinking. But part of me still wants to emerge, to separate–to claim it differently.

What do you say, then, to the author who changed everything, who’s now right before you?

“I share this book with friends to an evangelical amount.”

Because it’s true. And then you smile.

And aside from other blurriness that typically surmounts in these types of moments, I remember her smiling back, and I felt it was genuine–that hopefully, somehow, she could sense that my possibly hyperbolic comment was also genuine. And it was. I own more copies of that book than Barnes & Noble. I lend these copies to hands who’ll take them, endorsing them with rightful and honest praise.

Later, I laughed a little at myself: Evangelical? I said that? Was that too much?

Laughing back, my dear husband assured me, “I bet you were memorable.”

And I thanked him for saying that.

Memorable or not, I will keep on praising this book and these words, this gospel of readers and writers that must keep circling.

I’m giving my blog a much-needed kick in the pockets.

Here, “pockets” is the polite form of derriere. Or perhaps the result of working with too many preschoolers (read: “Sit on your pockets! Criss cross applesauce!”)

Anyway, the neglect is over. (For now…) But really, I’m going to try better. My best.

While I was out, there were a couple birthdays, Valentine’s festivities, and the completion of my sketchbook project sketchbook.

my b-day: as you may know, I prefer taking the hanukkah approach to celebration, and make it last as long as possible (or, around a full week). This year’s hurrah included a surprise knitting lesson from my dearest ashley, eating out for all three meals, joel bringing me to anthropologie to pick out a dress, and seeing the film adaptation of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, which was extremely excellent.

sketchbook project: alas, I met the end-of-the-month deadline, documented my work, and sent that puppy out into the world. It felt good to have something to show for myself, even though it was more of an experiment, not a portfolio, and I wouldn’t get it back. Still, I loved tapping into the ideas of youthfulness and nostalgia, which were central to the inspiration for the theme. And, I love the concept of cataloging sketchbooks from all around the world into a library of art to share. My fam and I are planning a mini jaunt to chicago when the sketchbook project is on tour there in may. In the meantime, I’m still waiting for my sketchbook to be digitized for viewing on the world wide web, but for now you can view my fb album.

valentine’s: ash & I hosted the usual heart’s & crafts party for a girl’s night, where we cover the floor in card-making supplies and crank out valentines like a hallmark factory. and eat cupcakes.

Even after the supplies were cleaned up and put away, joel actually got some back out and made me a card. For v-day dinner, he ordered in p.f. chang’s, including tiramisu for dessert, which came in perfect prediction of the evening’s movie choice, sleepless in seattle, which references said dessert. : )

joelly’s b-day: for whatever reason, joel has been fixated on turning 25 as the “rent-a-car” birthday. so, i surprised him by renting a car for the day (a 2011 red camaro) which he got to drive on a scavenger hunt created by moi. Each clue led to a destination around the city that held some sort of significance, and we ended at cheesecake factory for dinner. joel was totally into it, and also had knew clue what i had been planning up my sleeve. i was reminded how much i enjoy being sneaky. : )