Devon Trevarrow Flaherty's Blog, page 77

Le Pere Goriot, also known as Old Man Goriot, Old Goriot, or Father Goriot, written by Honore de Balzac within his Human Comedy series, and read in the new 2011 translation by Penguin Classics. Originally published in 1834-1835 (serialized).

Well, this was the first book in my reading series that was just a quiet, non-difficult read. Even though it is over 150 years old, the translation made it very accessible. So I could sit back and enjoy. And enjoy I did. It won’t be rising to my short list of best books ever read, but I would like to–some time in the future–read more of the Human Comedy books. For that is part of what has made Balzac and his Pere Goriot famous: his use of characters as bridges between different novels about the same time and place. It’s somewhat novel these days (although I know at least one husband who would read a series just because of this phenomenon), but in Balzac’s day it was creative and innovative to re-use characters in different books.

I admit that I like the first half of the book more than the second. Eventually, I tired of the character of Goriot and also the long-winded speeches everyone kept making. (In the nineteenth century, their speeches were much shorter than those in The Odyssey, but still not as short as we would prefer.) Plus, in the old olden days, you could moralize as much as you liked in a novel. That, too, almost gets tiring. However, peeping in on the lives of young dandies and Parisian women is fascinating. If only the threads had come together with more of a bang and fizzle, I would have considered a higher rating. But it’s French, people. Therefore, French endings. It’s British classics that end in five weddings (as opposed to one funeral and unknown despair). It has it’s own refreshing element.

The other thing that makes Balzac stand out in a literary history is his realism. He gets accused of being too slanderous of society, but on the whole people have praised him for his realistic portrayal of contemporary (to Balzac) characters and French society of the times. There is romance, there is comedy, but Le Pere Goriot is largely drama, unfolding around the unsuspecting characters, moralizing us all and keeping us interested.

1897 edition of Le Père Goriot, by an unknown artist.

Quotes from the book:

“Who is to say which sight is the more horrible: shriveled hearts, or empty skulls?” (p4).

“…in all, everything about her points to the boarding house, just as the boarding house leads to her” (p8).

“Madame Vaquer, who must be about fifty years of age, resembles all women who have seen better days” (p8).

“Each lodger’s appearance hinted at a tragedy, either fully played out, or in progress; not a tragedy performed in the glare of the footlights against a backdrop of painted scenery, but a silent, real-life tragedy, so chilling it stirs and warms the heart, a tragedy with no final curtain” (p11).

“What kind of employment had knocked the stuffing out of him? What passion had left such a stamp of bewilderment on his bulbous face, which would have seemed overdone as a caricature. What kind of man had  he been?” (p12).

“…a burning desire to appear to possess qualities they do not have, they hope to take by surprise the heart and esteem of those who are strangers to them, at the risk of one day falling from grace” (p21).

“This is a time when a student is excited by insignificant things which to him seem very grand” (p28).

“His roving imagination began cashing in future joys thick and fast” (p32).

“Now I understand why they say there is nothing more beautiful than a frigate in full sail, a horse at full gallop, and woman full of dance” (p41).

“A heart is a treasure chest: empty it in one go and you are ruined” (p71).

“Accept that men and women are post-horses that you ride into the ground then leave at each stage, and you’ll reach the pinnacle of your desires” (p73).

“As soon as a few [bank]notes slide into a student’s pocket, an imaginary pillar of support rises up inside him” (p89).

“Today he has it in him to punch a prime minister” (p89).

“Rastignac had one of those heads packed with powder which explode at the slightest impact” (p90).

“Not everyone is lucky enough to have ambition, my sweet” (p95).

“Given that fifty thousand good positions don’t exist, you’ll be forced to eat each other like spiders in a jam jar” (p98).

“… you  either have to be rich to start with, or appear so” (p99).

“I don’t point the finger at the Rich in favor of the People: man is the same at the top, the bottom, and in-between” (p99).

“Our happiness, dear friend, will always fit between the soles of our feet and the crown of our head; and whether it costs us a million a year or a hundred louis, we all, inside, have the same intrinsic perception of it” (p124).

“When you have given each other everything, why would you worry about a fraction of the whole?” (p132).

“He was ready to sacrifice his conscious for his mistress” (p227).

“…proving that not even the highest-ranking members of society are exempt from the laws of the heart and do not live free of all sorrows” (p232).

“There’s a God in heaven! He’ll avenge us fathers, against our wishes” (p241).

“There is a God! Yes, there has to be! There is a God, and he’s made a better world for us, or this earth of ours makes no sense whatsoever” (p245).

“Even though there’s no hope, his human dignity must be respected” (p248).

_____

Bonus: A Rastignac (the main character), in French, has come to mean a social climber who will use any means to better his situation.

Bonus two: I was fascinated to find that Balzac had basically lived the life of his main character, Rastignac.

Bonus three: There are several movies made of this novel, most French in origin and many well-praised (including a recent one with Gerard Depardieu and one called Balzac, about the author), but they are (unfortunately) difficult to lay your hands on. If I were to make an American movie of this book, I would call it Hotel Vaquer.

I think the first thing I need to define here is my idea of art. Now, there are whole books and classes and even lives dedicated to this topic, as well as ever-shifting popular and specialist opinions. I know. (I took a couple classes in college on aesthetics, as well as art appreciation, and the conversation is much bigger and more heated than all that.) At any rate, the most likely answer to “what is art?” falls into two categories: art is beauty, and art is statement. I can appreciate both of these answers.

However, what I have a hard time with is art which is just art. Maybe we could call it art that thinks it makes a statement but which–if it makes a statement–makes one exclusively about art and to a very narrow audience. Sure, if you are somehow targeted at an audience, fine. But more and more of public (and private) art is dedicated to this specialized topic (art) aimed at a narrow audience (the high echelons of the fine art community). Much of the energy, attention, and moneys involved in art are routed toward this particular thing, which I think is most prevalent in the visual arts. How many times have you gone to an art museum and either a) pretended you understood the modern art, or b) breezed by the modern art? Huh. That sculpture’s made with swine fecal matter, sun-dried and lacquered. Huh.

Still, we see the phenomenon in writing. Much of the money of writing goes toward mediocre and crowd-pleasing writing (which makes perfect sense to me even though it may not be my ideal situation). And yet, there are still so many writers (think poets and MFA wannabees) that succumb to the allure–whatever it might be–of the art-schmart thing. (No accident that it rhymes with fart.) The reason I am even writing this blog entry is because I recently came across some of this sort of writing.

I see this a lot in literary magazines and on blogs. And then they wonder why poetry doesn’t make money or journals are a dying breed. When the only people digging the self-gratifying dialogue are other art-schmart people, well there you go. But that’s not the point (partly because some self-indulgent art has really found that it pays). The point is that I find self-gratifying art to be as immoral as bad art. They both make my skin crawl. But why? Maybe because there’s only so much room in the public arena for art, only so many ears listening, only so many minds not otherwise engaged. And when we have the blessed opportunity of having those ears, those minds, those eyes for a time however brief, why would we want to waste that with being entitled and irrelevant?

Are the following statements true? If art is beauty, we should want to share that aesthetic experience as widely as possible for that beauty. If art is statement, we should want to share that message as widely as is necessary for that statement. Why then hide it under a bushel? (Or worse yet, obscure it with a tower made from human hair dyed neon colors?) Don’t get me wrong; art that pushes the envelope or says something new or exciting can be a great thing. Art that is ugly can also be a good thing. Perhaps even some art can be a bad thing and still be art. Remember, what I think is crazy is art that specifies itself out of a job.

Like this: Look at me! I’m weird! I’m different! Those ends are not beauty or real statements, as far as I can tell. And let’s face it: odd and ugly things are SO overdone in modern art. So overdone it doesn’t mean anything anymore. Especially to the average Joe, and I guess that’s what I’m getting at. Shouldn’t most public (and even private) art work for most public? Whatever happened to writing (or whatever) making people go “Wow!” or “Amazing!” or just taking their breath away or making them want to look/read/listen longer? Even better, what is wrong with art that makes people reflect on their lives, on the meaning of life, or on humanity (especially in a positive way)?

Which I guess is what really lies under the skin of the debate. Art of the self-indulgent kind operates in a sort of exclusivity. Whether intentionally or as a matter of coincidental accidents, self-indulgent art is snooty. I think this springs from the bizarre idea that art should not be beautiful or a statement, but should just be. While that may appeal for some, it is not livable (which by the way is one of the tests of the ethics of a thing). And then, somehow, the writer who writes non-livable stories (or anti-stories, as it were) looks down his long aquiline nose at anyone who mistakenly thinks writing should be about something or should do something (perhaps better society or entertain). How silly! How mortal! I’m going to write my non-story and then make jagged lines on a single sheet of paper until morning! See? Totally non-livable. And who want to be snooted at?

As for me, I avoid bad art and I avoid overly, overtly art-based art. Who needs ‘em? Only the paying few, the powerful few, the ones with magazines and awards. But that’s not what made J. K. Rowling, and, if I had to choose, I’d stick with millions of readers and an empire, even if it means making people laugh, cry, and think.

The first thing I need to say about this book is about the particular edition that I read (pictured left), not about the book itself. But very quickly (I’m on the fourth book of my 1000-plus) I have learned another lesson. And here it is: Do NOT fall for the POD (print-on-demand) versions of public domain books. Now, we all know I love POD as much as the next guy, although largely for self-publishing authors trying to break into the field or claim more of their revenue. However, I snagged the International Alliance of Pro-Publishing version of Sybil, and I have regretted it ever since. To be honest, I hadn’t even thought of the idea of public domain books being printed for a quick buck by some crappy company or some guy sitting at home at his computer in the dead of night. But I sure figured it out quick. For one, the cover and paper type is completely indicative of a POD. Which is okay. But it is not the highest quality. What really got me was the lack of material (most classical books include introductions, character lists, all sorts of extra things to help you enjoy and understand the story) and the excess of typos, grammatical errors, and misspellings. And because the book is in an older, British English, it was hard for me to catch all of the mistakes, instead left looking at the page confused. If I had a dollar for every time the “publisher” forgot to close a quote or move a paragraph to the next line, I would have doubled my last month’s salary. Seriously. Not to mention that the format was terrible: large pages and small margins (it is more affordable for the publisher) make for very long times between page turns and easily losing one’s place. It felt like forever.

The moral is, stick to the traditional publishers for the classics (Norton, Penguin, etc.), or at the very least, be on the look-out for bad versions of old literature (check ratings, sales, etc.), as I’m sure they will continue to rise in number.

Now for another prefacing comment. This is Sybil or The Two Nations by Benjamin Disraeli. (Recognize that name? He was a prime minister.) It is not Sybil by Flora Rheta Schreiber  and played in movie form by Sally Field. The OTHER Sybil is the one about the lady with dissociative identity disorder. THIS Sybil is knows as a novel with a these, about the Chartist movement in early 19th century/Victorian England and the gulf between the classes.

So, Sybil, or The Two Nations, by Benjamin Disraeli. First published in 1945. Where to start?

This book is described as a novel with a thesis (as I mentioned). That means that Disraeli was trying to reach the masses and the powers-that-be by slipping his political and societal rhetoric, like a little pill, into literary applesauce. It was effective. Now, more than 150 years later, it is less effective, but it is interesting to witness. For one, Disraeli is an alright novelist, but not the best. His characters tend to be flat (uncomplicated) and he is extremely fond of the surprise ending chapter.  (For example, you enter the chapter reading about a “guy” and some other people, and lots of events take place, and at the end of the chapter he suddenly writes, “and that man was EGREMONT” (yes, with the capitalization).  Really obnoxious to us modern readers.

Not to mention that the book–because it is full of hidden political pills–is very dull at times. Especially at the beginning. I admit to skimming whole sections where Disraeli turns back into his usual moralist self. The only reason I even found this part remotely interesting is 1) that someone did it and 2) I happened to have just watched Amazing Grace, which is a movie about William Wilberforce and includes many themes related to this book. And yet, the maker of that movie did a far better job at letting the “story” speak for itself. Disraeli’s version reminded me more of cookie dough where the liquid can still be distinguished from the flour. Doesn’t make for good cookies.

It’s not all bad, though. By the end of the book I found myself continually thinking that it would make a great period film. Or even a re-write. In the hands of a skilled novelist (or screenwriter and director), the plot could really sing. And somewhere in there we would all get the idea of class distinction, the degradation and persecution of the working classes, the excesses of the upper, and all that. (There was a movie made in 1921, but I can’t find a way to get my hands on it.)

One last thing: Did anyone else find it odd that to portray the rift between the upper and working classes, Disraeli chose Sybil, who secretly possessed a noble lineage and a plan to move into the upper class? I found that awkward, to say the least. Maybe it helped make the message more tolerable to the upper class? These days, it seems like a poor choice born of an undercurrent of the dregs of prejudice. Like Disraeli, as noble as he was, couldn’t even imagine a pure and worthy heroine without a claim to “old blood.”

Also annoyed me that three of the main characters were named Marney, Mowbray, and Morley. Just one of those things.

Would I recommend it? Depends on how interested you are in Victorian suffrage and how willing you are to read pages of Chartist essay. In the end, I would say wait for the film, or until your Literature teacher makes you read it. Then enjoy.

Ooops. Almost forgot my quotes.

“Then all was blooming; sunshine and odor; not a breeze disturbing the meridian splendor. Then the world was not only made for a few, but a very few.”

“To be conscious you are ignorant is a great step to knowledge.”

“But the obscure majority, who under our present constitution are destined to govern England, are as secret as a Venetian conclave. Yet on their dark voices all depends.”

“‘My inclination is of course to do everything for you; but when I calculate my resources, I may find that they are not equal to my inclination.’”

“Always sacrificed, always yielding, the moment she attempted to express an opinion, she ever seemed to assume the position not of the injured but the injurer.”

“He looked for a moment in despair upon this maiden walled out from sympathy by prejudices and convictions more impassable than all the mere consequences of class.”

“There was not that strong and rude simplicity in this organization she had supposed. The characters were more various, the motives more mixed, the classes more blended, the elements of each more subtle and diversified, than she had imagined.”

“The people had enemies among the people: their own passions.”

“…the conquerors will never rescue the conquered.”

“Predominant opinions are generally the opinions of the generation that is vanishing.”

“‘What if everything were changed, if everything were contrary to what it is?’ said Sybil. ‘The people are not disciplined; their action will not be, cannot be, coherent and uniform; these are riots in which you are involved, not revolutions; and you will be a victim, and not a sacrifice.’”

“‘In the agitated hour wild words escape. If I have used them, I regret; if you, I have forgotten.’”

“‘Time and accident, which change everything.’”

“‘Can we be free without suffering?’ said Gerard. ‘Is the greatest of human blessings to be obtained as a matter of course?’”

“An empty belly is sometimes as apt to dull the heart as inflame the courage.”

“What we want is, good wages and plenty to do.”

“‘Why in a sense, Julia, in a certain sense you are right; but there are two sense to everything, my girl.’”

 

Giveaways ending at midnight, tonight:

Signed paperback copy of Benevolent, at My Memories of a Future Life.

She & Him, Volume 3 CD, at My Memories of a Future Life.

Enter now!

Also, Benevolent now has sample e-versions of the book at GoodReads. Click on "download excerpt" (in the long green box) to read the first five chapters.

And enjoy!

Whew! Let me just ask: how many times a day do you check your email? Your Twitter? Your blog stats? Your Linked In? Your Amazon rankings? Don’t have Amazon rankings? Thank goodness. Because it’s just another thing to be obsessed about checking.

I didn’t think I would circle around my internet activity nearly as much as I do. It is compulsive. Even if I manage to pry myself from my work chair (read: couch) every once in awhile, when I happen to sweep the rug close to the computer I just have to pop through the sites and see… Or if I am doing lunges on the yoga mat within a few feet of my work desk (read: TV tray), I just have to press the little buttons across my browser that let me know within moments where I stand with today’s social networks. Almost all the time, there’s nothing awesome to report.

It’s like when cell phones became real, usable gadgets. Whereas just months before I might walk into the mall with my family and say something like “I’ll meet you in front of Yankee Candle at 3:00,” now none of us could figure out how to problem solve when Charlie had left his celly at home. So it is with social media. It’s so easy, and quick, and addictive, it is getting harder and harder to imagine a world before I knew–up to the hour–what my friends were having for lunch and how my book is selling. Yikes.

And I chalk a little of it up to my husband. He loves the real-time aspect of the internet. I try to forget about Kindle and the library and awards competitions for days at a time, but Kevin just keeps asking about it. Any sales today? Hear back about that award? I noticed someone put your book on hold in Durham. Really, I believe I would be a lot happier if sometimes I didn’t know. Just like I feel I would be a lot happier if sometimes we still had a meet time and place at the mall. Wouldn’t we all?

I have made a decision. This coming fall, when my son goes off to school with his big sister, I am going to work outside of the home, as a writer (read: at Starbucks or the library study room). I can’t think of any other way to get us all in the rhythm of our new life. (Kevin is also completely changing his work schedule.) Sure, I really want everyone to get the clue that I will not be the daytime maid, anymore. But I’m also doing this for me. From 9am-3pm, Monday-Friday, I will not be the laundress, dish-washer, or home accountant. I will be a writer, and a bit of a publisher. Do you know how hard it will be for me at home to focus on that, after all these years of balancing all the mess of life in one big glob? Likewise, from 3pm on each day, and on most weekends, I will be Wife and Mom (and sometimes cook and sweeper and dishwasher). I want very little double-timing.

Recently I attended a creative entrepreneur conference (which I will be blogging about later, see “Solopreneur or Smoffice, Anyone?”), and the best advice I kept hearing again and again was this: market and publicity is a once-a-week thing. The art is the rest-of-the-week thing. Writing is the heart of my business, and there is only so much I can do to sell myself and my book. So my aim is to tidy up the slop that has evolved from my writing-momming-wifeing-publishing-marketing-selling life. From the fall on, I will have business hours. And I will have Owl and Zebra Press business hours. (I’m thinking Mondays.) And I will have Devon Trevarrow Flaherty business hours (Tuesday-Friday). And when I go home, I am that other woman.

Huge sigh of relief.

And while we are on the subject… I know that my appearance on someone’s website doesn’t mean too much to them, at this point. However, I have managed to just nudge myself into the loop lately, with a few lauded guest blogs on a couple pretty popular sites (and a natural increase of Twitter and blog followers). Then, I went on another site and generated almost no traffic for the lady. I mean, the giveaways had not one entry (as of today). So, do a sister a favor and like or share or comment on the article at My Memories of a Future Life. And while you are at it, enter the She & Him CD giveaway or the book giveaway. I mean, those CDs are selling like hot cakes! Your chances of winning are pretty spectacular.

With Kevin now graduated from nursing school, this has been a big month for us and the entertainment industry and catching up. We have spent a majority of our May evenings tucking the kids in and then slumping onto the couch to watch our newest favorite thing. We haven’t had a life like this in a really long time.

So here are my May reviews of movies and TV.

Clueless (movie, 1995). My sister used to love this movie, but I don’t recall watching it until college (probably because I had a seething jealousy of Alicia Silverstone; another story, another time). At any rate, I had been wanting to see it again because of the whole modern Emma thing. (Clueless is a contemporary remake of Emma, by Jane Austen.) I thoroughly enjoyed the movie. Wasn’t the best movie I’d ever seen, but entertaining, nonetheless. Really predictable, but entertaining. Just a good solid rent.

We finished Downton Abbey, Season 2 (TV series, 2010-). We love this show. Kevin gets history and I get British life and we both get intrigue. I can’t imagine many people who would give this show a try not getting accidentally addicted. Alas, there are many who will not give it a try. Still, anxiously awaiting next season… (For what it’s worth, we watch this series as it comes out on Hulu, so no season 3 spoilers please.)

Life of Pi (movie, 2012). Another book into a movie, although this one a direct interpretation. I was looking for a movie that I thought Kevin wouldn’t mind me watching without him, but now I would like him to see it. It was a great movie. Slow at times, but visually stunning and the ending… well, it made me remember why the book is good. Of course, I can’t really buy into all the being-three-religions at once idea, but the sheer imagination is wonderful.

Hunky Dory (movie, 2011). I wanted to like this movie, but it was mediocre. It’s like an awesome concept full of great actors and perfect music, but somehow the whole is not equal to the parts. Was surprised at the ending when I realized it was based on a true story. If you like Irish culture or Minnie Driver or 70s music, it would still be worth the watch. Like High School Musical or Glee without all the editing. And there are moments of brilliance, like when the music class covers ELO with a small orchestra and a band of water-filled jars. Now that I think about it, the soundtrack would be the best part.

The Supersizers Go… (TV series, 2007-). I don’t know how Kevin found this series, but he sure hit the nail on the head for us two nerds. History plus food plus humor equals awesome. This is a British reality series where a food critic and a chef live a week at at time as close to a previous time period as possible (as in eat the food, wear the clothes, adopt the habits). So far, we have watched episodes covering WWII, the 70s, and the 1660s. It is so great. Intriguing. And at times, laugh out loud.

The Secret of Moonacre (movie, 2008). This was a family night pick. It was only okay. Honestly, my favorite part was the clothes.

Percy Jackson & the Lightning Thief (movie, 2010). Another family night pick and another movie based on a book. I have not read any of the books. And another only okay movie. The best part was figuring out which Greek legend everything was based on. Like Percy=Perseus. Aha! Unfortunately, myths were thrown together whatever which way. I’m guessing the star-studded cast was hoping for another Harry Potter. Hmm.

The Office (TV series, 2005-2013). If you missed this band-wagon, the ride is now over. Although you could always start over in syndication. Honestly, I never thought the show recovered from the loss of Michael (Steve Carell), but then the wrap-up was sort of brilliant. Whereas the British The Office ended abruptly and they had to tie up loose ends in a Christmas special, this finale (happening over three extended episodes) was a well-oiled machine. There were many times in the series where I felt my allegiance waning because of the at-times too despicable and bone-headed characters (see “Scott’s Tots”), but in the end you feel like the film crew… you want to see what happens to these people. All in all, The Office delivers on what it always delivered on: familiarity, laughs, and a little tenderness.

Yes, I know a ton of my blogging lately is very reflective on that very quiet and constantly disappointing first year of publishing. Then again, going for this ride together is largely what The Starving Artist is all about. I promise to keep throwing in the odd book review and monthly synopsis, but as for the writing life, publishing, and the artistic disposition, I think you can expect a lot more of the same, for awhile.

When you put a book up for sale on Amazon, you are aiming for a few things. You are all in for the accessibility and the ease of purchase, of course. If you used CreateSpace, you are also in it for the on-demand printing press. And then there’s the marketing opportunities.

Your book will start out day one at the bottom of the ranking pile. As you sell books, generate clicks and reviews, etc., your book will move up the rankings. Sometimes this happens really fast, and it always happens in jumps and starts. As your sales slow (or someone else’s sales increase), you will slide back down into oblivion, also in jumps and starts. None of this is done in a straightforward manner. Catherine Ryan Howard in her book Self-Printed says that Amazon generates its sales rankings not just from number of books sold, but from some secret algorithm. Not hard to believe; it’s basically the industry (as in internet) standard.

At the top of the rankings pile, supposedly, Amazon furthers your good fortune by making your book more visible to users and shoppers. This is also the way the internet, and probably lots of other sites (like Goodreads) operate. The higher you rank, the more natural marketing and more host-sponsored marketing happen. So moving up is the golden challis for making it big.

And I know I keep repeating it, but from the first day your listing goes live to one year later, it would be absurd to expect high sales, even after all your hard work. I have spent significant time on the web searching award-winning books and self-published books and scrutinizing their reviews, their sales ranks, their internet appearances, etc. Unfortunately, awards, exceptional reviews, and a great web presence do not necessarily reflect in the sales rank. Which means that the “best indie book of 2012″ may not have made a living. At least not yet.

Whereas industry magazines have been full of the same story for years–I wrote and wrote for a long time and then finally got published at [age between 30 and 70]–I believe the magazines will slowly transition to this story: I published and published for a long time and finally got some sales at [insert age between 30 and 70].  That’s one of the many ways the game is changing. Sure, you can now publish a whole lot easier, but whereas the glut used to be in wanna’ be authors, the glut is now in books. So the breakthrough is no longer your publication date. It is the time when all your networking and marketing and perseverance finally lead to vastly increased recognition that translates to sales for your third, or fourth, or fifteenth book. As it always has been, luck (or magic dust) is also involved.

So, in sad conclusion, it happens to all of us. Just re-calibrate your thinking. You can get published. Simples. But when will you be the next big [enough] thing? That’s still to be determined.

I have been awarded the Sunshine Blog Award.

And now, before we discuss that further, I’m going to–in true Devon style–get all pensive about it.

From my hasty research, I conclude that there are two kids of blog awards. The first is backed by some sort of organization of some kind. That can be as thrown-together as a New York online group of disenfranchised bloggers (think Ugly Betty‘s Blobbies) or as backed as the Bloggies or BOBs. Either way, these awards are begun with nominations and ended with some panel of person(s) choosing from some number of blogs to endow a specific amount with award(s).

The other form of blog award would be better called a chain compliment. This is where the Sunshine Award comes in. For these “awards,” a previously-endowed blogger passes the award onto another set of bloggers. Those bloggers, should they choose to accept, have to jump through some hoops, like posting the logo, answering questions, and most definitely passing the award on to others. Like I said, very much like a chain compliment. Because the truth is, a fellow blogger has to choose you in order to win, but there is no judgement phase beyond that. One big, happy nomination party that last forever? You can even find websites online where you can generate “awards” for blogs that you like. Just from you. The all-bestowing.

Let’s consider what this second group of “awards” would do for you. First, they involve warm, fuzzy feelings. They network you with other bloggers. They give you the chance of increasing perceived success and validity, resulting in increased traffic and increased income. Isn’t that the goal? The deal is, and let’s be honest, the onus is on the informationally-gifted (that would be the reader) for deciphering one award from another. There’s the Most Improved in the Echo Grove Camp B Band and then there’s an Oscar. Which one would you rather have? More importantly, which one do you crown with more force?

Now let’s consider how they might hurt. I have been struggling with this one a lot lately, also considering writing awards (and I will be blogging about that very soon, “Weighing In On ‘Vanity Awards’”). I suppose that it might hurt your credibility if you were linked with shabby awards and un-earned laurels. But with whom? Mostly, I think, we would be talking about circles of especially cool and snobby people. If I were to walk down the street and tell 100 people I won a Sunshine Blog Award, I’m going to very ridiculously claim that the vast majority of them would say “Congratulations!” and even get that envious gleam in their eye. Only a few would heighten the level of their chin and breathe down at me, “What is that?” But I like to be cool, and I like everyone to like me. And like my book. Ah, well.

Now let’s decide whether or not we can morally accept a chain compliment award. I am going to say sure, as long as you are not intentionally misleading people by making the Sunshine logo look just like a Caldecott Award. And no making up stats. Just use it for what it is: a way to reach out to the blogging community, checking out the blogs you want to nominate and waiting for your nominees to return the favor of surfing your site. A couple tweets can’t be all bad.

So, back to the point, I have been bestowed with The Sunshine Blog chain compliment award. Here is my acceptance:

I would first like to thank Steph Jones over at The Road to Creativity for the nomination.

The rules are

Include the award’s logo in a post or on your Blog. (Find a version online or make your own.)
List ten things about yourself.
Nominate ten bloggers, complete with links, and comment on their blogs letting them know of the nomination.
Link the person who nominated you.

Ten things about myself:

I galloped around the Pyramids of Giza on a camel named Charlie Brown, wearing nursing scrubs.
I am going to Moldova soon, to help run a camp for teens and have the anniversary trip of a lifetime. Camping.
I can crack my right ankle on command. And while we’re on the subject, I regularly see a chiropractor.
I ran for student body president in college with a group we called The Other Side of the Spoon. (Get it? Like thinking outside of the box?)
I love good, dark chocolate, but never milk chocolate. And I don’t like melons. But I love cauliflower.
I really enjoy cut flowers, but I can’t keep a plant alive for anything.
My strongest sense is my sense of smell. And maybe my intuition.
I convinced my parents to let me be an exchange student to Paris when I was eleven.
I am part Cherokee. Or Cree. At any rate, this isn’t all British.
One of my passions is exposing and obliterating human trafficking, as well as freeing and rehabilitating victims. I have been involved with Stop Child Trafficking Now, Freedom Firm, and other local organizations.

My Nominations (in no particular order, and excluding many, of course):

Wisdom and Folly, with Jim and Amy Spiegel
Head Above Water, with Alison Wells
Claire King, over at her self-titled blog
Nathan Bransford, Author with–what for it–Nathan Bansford
Catherine, Caffeinated with Catherine Ryan Howard
Wordplay with K. M. Weiland
Writer’s Digest’s There Are No Rules
Bucket List Publications with Lesley Carter
101 Books with Robert Bruce
Christian Mihai, at another self-named blog

Me!

That’s right, folks. The Paris Book Festival has posted their annual competition results and I have taken an honorable mention in the General Fiction category. Thank you, thank you very much. I would like to thank all you little people who have helped me get where I am…

Now, the award will only be as good as what I can do with it. If I were the grand prize winner, I would be on a plane to Paris. As it were, I will have to settle with knowing they will be mentioning me in Paris sometime in the next month, at the ceremony, and I will very cooly and casually not be present to accept it. So I will just have to take the acknowledgment and plaster it wherever I can. Cause that’s what you do with an award like this. Milk it.

And bask in the glory a bit, too. Because, after all, I have been validated; highlighted by industry professionals out of over-3000 other books from six languages and around the world as having “general excellence” and “passion for telling a good story” as well as “the potential of the work to gain a wider audience in the worldwide market.” Yeah, that has me written all over it.

Let’s just ignore for right now that I tend to be the queen of honorable mentions. (Honorable Mention for a Young Laureate Award, 4th grade. Honorable Mention for no less than four art categories at Taylor University’s Annual Art Show and Competition, in college. Third Place for poetry, “to me: from my husband, who can not write poetry,” Parnassus literary magazine, 2000. Okay, so that last one’s not quite an honorable mention, but right now is sure feels like the almosts are piling up.)

And just like that, I go from a two-month stint as novelist to award-winning novelist.

Let’s make this a habit.

The Sound and the Fury, written by William Faulkner, the corrected text published by Vintage International in 1984, but originally published in 1928 and (the Appendix) 1946.

It is shocking how long it took me to get into this book. I don’t really like to know too much about a book before I read it, but without some background information, I found this book almost impossible. However, once I figured out that the stream of consciousness narration would not last the whole novel, I was able to move ahead and even enjoy parts of it.

I find myself wondering what about this book makes it one of the best American books ever written. The only two answers I can come up with are: 1) It is historically important to an understanding of the South between the Civil War and modern times; 2) It is important to literature for the advancement of stream of consciousness writing and various other (then) experimental types of writing (change in point of views, experimentation with punctuation, etc.). It was difficult to enjoy, certainly, but there is a kind of brilliance here, none the less. If you enjoy American history or  literature for literature’s sake, this is a good read. If you want to chill at the beach, don’t bother packing it.

For one thing, it is almost completely depraved. If books succeed based on whether or not people love and identify with the characters, then this book–like a lot of other literary fiction–makes no sense to the masses. There are some beautiful passages, but not enough for me to like it for that reason. What I did like, eventually, was the way the four sections worked together to make a whole story; one you wanted to see come to a conclusion (which, again like lots of literary fiction, sort of did and sort of did not). I enjoyed how we started out on one day, back-tracked to a day in the past when a very pivotal event happened, came back to the day before the first day, and ended with the day after, and how it mattered who was dictating the events of each day.

I have to say I do not agree with Faulker’s adding the Appendix some twenty years after the publication of the book. I think it’s a bit boring and unnecessary. I don’t think he adds anything to the book with the family history, even though he claims it is the “key” to the novel. We already get or feel or understand all that he adds later.

About the innovative use of language: The first section is narrated–in stream of consciousness–by a severely mentally handicapped character. I think you can see how it is then extremely challenging to read and follow. The next section is narrated–again in stream of consciousness–by a neurotic character who is slowing deteriorating into depression and eventually suicide. A little easier to read, but not by much. Lots of people consider this an even more difficult section than the previous. Third section, finally some narration that is not stream of consciousness (swooping between Jason’s thoughts and what is happening around him), but is still narrated by a greedy, cold-hearted racist. Last section finally has an outside narrator. Faulkner also uses italics, lack of punctuation, lower case letters, and writing dialect to create a pretty crazy piece of 1920s literature. As a modern reader, I find tricks like these to be more distracting than effective (especially the dialect). Because of all these bells and whistles, I strongly suggest a character list before delving into the first section. Faulkner is also a bit the king of run-on sentences.

And when I think about it, the majority of story in this novel is what I might think of as back-story. In other words, there’s not a whole lot of plot development, just mainly character development and musings on the deterioration of the old South.

“Because no battle is ever won he said. They are never even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools” (p76).

“You cant know and he said Yes. On the instant when we come to realize tragedy is second-hand” (p116).

“They all talked at once, their voices insistent and contradictory and impatient, making of unreality a possibility, then a probability, then an inconvertible fact, as people will when their desires become words” (p117).

“It was nothing. Just sound. It might have been all time and injustice and sorrow become vocal for an instant by a conjunction of planets” (p288).

“Along its quiet length white people in bright clumps moved churchward, under the windy bells, walking now and then in the random and tentative sun” (p290).

“Dilsey sat bolt upright, her hand on Ben’s knee. Two tears slid down her fallen cheeks, in and out of the myriad coruscations of immolation and abnegation and time” (p295).

The title is to have come from Shakespeare’s Macbeth: “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, / Creeps in this petty pace from day to day / To the last syllable of recorded time, / And all our yesterdays have lighted fools / The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! / Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player / That struts and frets his hour upon the stage / And then is heard no more: it is a tale / Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, / Signifying nothing.”  But there is also this: “Jason told him, his sense of injury and impotence feeding upon its own sound, so that after a time he forgot his haste in the violent cumulation of his self justification and his outrage. The sheriff watched him steadily with his cold shiny eyes” (p303).