you don’t actually have to read the books

The New York Times‘ Sunday Magazine interviewed University of Paris French Literature professor Pierre Bayard about his book How to Talk About Books You Haven’t Read. The interview is great, but here’s a tickler.

Q. Then why are you so willing to devalue the experience of close reading in favor of skimming? You seem to believe that knowing a little bit about 100 literary classics is preferable to knowing one book intimately.

A. I think a great reader is able to read from the first line to the last line; if you want to do that with some books, it’s necessary to skim other books. If you want to fall in love with someone, it’s necessary to meet many people. You see what I mean?

Q. You suggest in your book that schools destroy a love of literature, in part because they don’t allow skimming.

A. Yes. Sometimes I help my son write book reports. Guillaume — he’s 14. It’s terrible. The questions are so specific about the names of characters, dates and towns where the heroes went that I am unable to answer the questions. It is the model of reading in France. A kind of scientific reading, which prevents people from inventing another kind of reading, which should be a form of wandering, as in a garden.

becoming un-stuck

With school canceled for the week due to the fires, I was a very lazy girl. Well, at least in that productive write-your-research-paper way. I did start writing my next short story, however, since my last story was workshopped a few weeks ago. I found myself stalking my characters, trying to get to know them. I wandered around the apartment thinking of what they would say to each other, and then, questioning their decisions. I fretted over structure, told myself something has to happen (action’s not my strong suit) and more or less banged my head against the wall for a few days. Godammit, why won’t they just tell me what they want?

At the same time, I started reading for myself, finally putting a dent into Granta’s Best Young Novelists 2, beginning Kaui Hemmings Hart’s House of Thieves, and slowly plodding away at One Hundred Years of Solitude (again) for class. It was there, in those pages, rather than the blank ones on my computer screen, that prompted me to keep going. While my stories begin with germ of an idea—a dream, an image—these texts inspired me by breaking up a the traditional narrative, by offering that one telling detail, by showing me worlds beyond my own, a lens in which to see my characters. And of course, they’re just so damn good.

And so I finished the first full draft a few days ago. Of course, now I’ve got the emotional lull because it’s not really mine anymore. Not exclusively. But mostly, I hope this is a lesson: When stuck, go back to the books. Keep reading.

It reminded me of something I read from Julia Glass, after I read her novel, Three Junes. Here’s what she had to say (the truncated version) about reading while writing.

But inspiration, that’s a kinder, gentler matter — and if I turn a less covetous eye on my list, I could say it’s a list of writers who inspire me: amplify my senses of the physical world, my joy in language, my faith in the power of make-believe. The only impediment to reading their books is the urge — the almost literal itch — they sometimes give me to heave them aside like burning coals and get to work on mine.

I have heard writers claim that while they’re working on a new book, they won’t read anything contemporary, won’t read anything they haven’t read before, or simply won’t read at all. They’re too impressionable, they claim. I find such restrictions as absurd as protesting that you can’t eat out if you’re the household cook or can’t give birth if you’re an obstetrician. And when, after all, is a writer not working? In my head at least, the business of spinning stories has no closing time. Twists in my characters’ lives, glimpses of their secrets, obstacles to their dreams…all arrive unbidden when I’m getting cash at the ATM, walking my son to camp, singing a hymn at a wedding.

The books I read, if they intrude on my writing, do so as weather will pass through and touch a landscape — affecting it, yes, but only now and then leaving a permanent mark. This kind of inspiration struck, perfectly timed, when I was about two-thirds of the way through writing Three Junes. … I went right out and bought a collection of Cameron’s stories and his previous novel, The Weekend, a book that would prove fortuitous to the completion of mine.

I was also facing down the true challenge of writing a novel: ending it. I knew who the characters were in the final third of the book, I knew the present action would take place over a weekend at that house on Long Island, I knew the alliances as they would stand at the end and that the end would be hopeful, but I did not know quite how the characters would get there. In The Weekend, I was surprised (and a little unnerved) to encounter a cast of characters from the very same world, even (as in Three Junes) a man still mourning the loss of another man to AIDS and a mother preoccupied with the fate of a small child. More remarkably, the novel ended, as I knew mine would, with the main character’s return to New York City. I might have been depressed at the similarities, but I was energized.

I felt as if I had traveled abroad and run into next-door neighbors I’d never met at home or as if my characters, drifting about in my head, had discovered a gang of soul mates — souls who seemed not frivolous but tragically weighted. I was heartened by this kinship, even though Cameron’s writing has a conciseness I could only envy. And now I confess to an act of theft.

what makes a woman beautiful?

Health magazine did a stellar job in this beauty layout last year. They traveled the country to speak with real women about beauty, rather than the ungodly women who grace most magazines. I’m falling in love with this magazine, it upholds everything I believe in, and it doesn’t make me feel shitty about myself, like Vogue or Cosmo. In a society where age and weight are frowned upon, and women range from harboring shame of their bodies to flaunting all the goodies, this was a refreshing perspective.

Since I have to return the magazine, I’ve scanned my favorites to tack up for inspiration and thought I’d share.

See the whole spread here.

We live in a world of stick-figure celebrities, deprivation diets, and surgeons ready to overhaul almost any body part you can think of. And yet, many women are saying “enough.” Enough of the pressure from men, from the media—from our own mothers, sisters, friends—to measure beauty by the height of our cheekbones or size of our jeans. We are beautiful because of who we are, how we think, and what we do with our lives—not merely how we look.

open your hips, be happy

By now, everyone has heard my yoga-redemption story. Yet after it gave me the courage to get through the monotonous days (at least 1-2 practices daily), I only return to it once of twice a week and usually for no more than 20 minutes. I know, I know, the yoga purists are wagging their fingers at me. Come on, I’m a busy girl. And camel pose is hard.

But what I do love about yoga (when I do it) is that it’s a practice that makes me feel more open physically and emotionally than any other form of movement. It’s as if my whole body can breathe, being aware and proud of itself. I feel sexier. Calmer.

My body began to send distress signals when I re-entered school. My breathing was more shallow and my hip muscles ached. The breathing, of course, is a sign of anxiety, and the tight hips are a result of sitting all day.

The hips are important because they’re what allow you to move forward. Anyone who’s seen me on a bike or a hike know I like to go forward. I don’t even like reversing into a driveway.

Beyond restricting your forward momentum, some say that the hips are the seat of the emotions in yoga. I found this online:

Because we can hold years of physical and emotional tension in our hips, it’s important to know how to effectively release them … When tension from the hips is released, your whole body experiences the change. You’ll feel lighter emotionally and more fluid physically as you free stagnant energy and loosen tight musculature in your hips.

In yoga classes, I’ve seen people flat-out refuse hip openers like pigeon pose. As I’ve mentioned before with meditation, teachers have said we avoid the healing we need the most. Others say all movement begins in the mind, and when the muscles are tight, the mind simply overworks.

Either way, here’s a few faves (and a few others) that make your hips happy.

Beautiful Hemalayaa in the morning. The lunges in the sun salutations and triangle poses opens the hips. My absolute favorite, but I’ve done it so many times, I need something new. It’s like a little hokey pokey in the morning (you get to shake it all about).

Better Sex Through Yoga Vol. 1. Yes, this was a gift. Yes, I also own Striptease a la Carmen Electra. There’s no point in being shy, ladies. It’s a great practice, lots of downward facing-dog (head rush, anyone?) and hip openers I haven’t seen in other workouts. My only beef is the sound is poor quality, so I turn to it rarely. A good bet if you want yoga and a kegel-reminder wrapped into one.

When I’m particularly lazy (or sick, or hung over and my muscles need a good ringing out), I turn to the short A.M. and Stress Relief practices from The All Day Yoga Workout. Very much a beginner’s practice, using a strap and a brick. It’s healing like a bubble bath.

I just started using Yoga Bliss Hips, and the jury’s still out on this one. Not as much hip opening as you’d expect, but lots of emotion-bubbling from this form of yoga, Kundalini.

And finally, this comes from a DVD I bought and returned because Power (Vinyasa) Yoga is too fast paced for my taste. I like the breathers of yoga. I like not having to worry about my heart rate. Nonetheless, I may give this another shot, because I’ve heard good things about Tragically Hips. It’s a free, 55-minute download.

Here’s to moving forward.

getting back on the road

I learned two things when friends came to visit us in September.

1. Graduate school gives you cubicle ass.
2. I’m more tense than usual. (I think the diplomatic question was, “How’s your yoga going?” Obviously, not very well.)

Yikes. I’ll be a fat, gnarly girl with a graduate degree. My mind, of course, turned to exercise.

I don’t like to think of movement as exercise because visions of gyms come to mind. That smell of other people’s sweat. All those pectorals and cute buns. The high-end, fashion sportswear show. Sure, I like a romp on the treadmill every once in a while, but quite frankly, I’d rather nap.

I use my interest in traditional medicines to justify my lack of gym membership. In Ayurveda, this sort of strenuous exercise is detrimental to the ever-moving Vata constitution, which needs calming rather than revving up. In traditional Chinese medicine, it adds heat to an already overextended body warm with stress, caffeine and meals-on-the-go.

My interest in these philosophies stems from my belief in the mind/body/environment relationship, one that needs coddling. Yoga got me through unhappiness, walking through stress. I turn to them both again and again.

Walking

Several people I know swear by walking. I swore by walking, too, when it was my only form of transportation in a big metropolis. Exercise by accident, not design. California-going makes it harder.

After months of driving, my acupuncturist recommended I walk at least 5 minutes and as much as 45 minutes a day. I needed to get the chi moving, she said, I needed to let my work anxiety seep out. On a personal level, I needed to get away from my desk, under the trees, into the sunshine. Sometimes I thought of it as a moving meditation. Other times it was essential to my work. I’d leave my desk struggling with a lede, just to find it under the redwoods.

When I quit my job, I started to use audio walking guides by Debbie Rocker. They keep me going faster and longer. I try for at least a couple miles every few days. I know it’s not much, but consistent exercise is supposed to be better than occassional bursts of intensity.

But mostly, I’m searching for music that’ll make me gladly hoof the hills in my neighborhood. The kind of music that you dance to when you’re home alone. That makes you want to sing. From Motown to Wyclef to the Sundays. What do you listen to? What gets you out of bed in the mornings?

the great stories

“The secret of the Great Stories is that they have no secrets. The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably. They don’t deceive you with thrills and trick endings. They don’t surprise you with the unforeseen.. They are as familiar as the house you live in. Or the smell of your lover’s skin. You know how they end yet you listen as though you don’t. In the way that you know that one day you will die, you live as though you won’t. In the Great Stories you know who lives, who dies, who finds love, who doesn’t. And yet you want to know again. That is their mystery and their magic.”

—Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

ain’t no sunshine

Who says you can’t grow a garden in a dark alley?

This tomato from Czechoslovakia is putting on fruit, even as the days get shorter and the sunshine nearly disappeared last month. The climbing beans, however, may not fare so well, but they’re latching onto a fishing line trellis and flowering. They’re so beautiful, these shocks of white against the drab, gray day.

Plants never fail to amaze me, they’re biologically wired to do their thing. Climb, flower, climb, flower, die. Grow, flower, fruit, grow, flower fruit, die. The same is true of their needs, as the salad seedlings are leggy, searching for the sun. I’m not sure they’ll make it.

They’re fun to love, but I’m afraid I won’t get much in the way of produce. Next week, though, we start our biweekly produce from CSA Be Wise Ranch. Buggah, I’m happy to admit, is beginning to make peace with the vegetable kingdom and now we’ll have all these organic goodies straight from the earth.