Book Report Monday: The Museum of Extraordinary Things

Title: The Museum of Extraordinary Things

Author: Alice Hoffman

Genre: Fiction-Historical

Synopsis: Mesmerizing and illuminating, Alice Hoffman's The Museum of Extraordinary Things is the story of an electric and impassioned love between two vastly different souls in New York during the volatile first decades of the twentieth century. Coralie Sardie is the daughter of the sinister impresario behind The Museum of Extraordinary Things, a Coney Island boardwalk freak show that thrills the masses. An exceptional swimmer, Coralie appears as the Mermaid in her father's museum, alongside performers like the Wolfman, the Butterfly Girl, and a one-hundred-year-old turtle.

One night Coralie stumbles upon a striking young man taking pictures of moonlit trees in the woods off the Hudson River. The dashing photographer is Eddie Cohen, a Russian immigrant who has run away from his father's Lower East Side Orthodox community and his job as a tailor's apprentice. When Eddie photographs the devastation on the streets of New York following the infamous Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire, he becomes embroiled in the suspicious mystery behind a young woman's disappearance and ignites the heart of Coralie.

With its colorful crowds of bootleggers, heiresses, thugs, and idealists, New York itself becomes a riveting character as Hoffman weaves her trademark magic, romance, and masterful storytelling to unite Coralie and Eddie in a sizzling, tender, and moving story of young love in tumultuous times. (from Goodreads)

My Review: Hoffman is as reliable as always for me. I didn't know anything about the Triangle Factory Fire or about New York City in the early 1900's. The fact that most people haven't heard about the factory fire that killed 146 garment workers who could not escape the flames because the managers had locked them in was a driving force behind Hoffman's desire to tell this story. The fire served as a catalyst for unionization and garment worker's rights. In the novel lost soul and  photographer, Eddie, arrives at the scene of the conflagration in time to document most of the tragedy. Many of the victims, mostly young Jewish women, held hands and jumped from the windows to hasten their deaths.

Eddie is approached by the grieving father of one of the girls working at the factory who hasn't been seen since the fire but was not found among the dead. Investigating the missing girl leads him to Coralie, who lives in her father's museum of oddities which includes her. Coralie has a strangely sheltered life. She's seen and experienced the bizarre and unimaginable but she has seen little of life outside. The performers give the reader the same feeling as sideshow freaks from a circus or carnival. Yet we see them, not only costumed and in character but when they are engaged in everyday rituals. Many have deformities so severe they have no other option than to become an exhibit in the Museum of Extraordinary Things. For her own part, Coralie never considered that she had a choice. The two stories are set in a distinct juxtaposition but are intertwined by both the fate of the missing girl and the connection between Eddie and Coralie. In true Hoffman style, the young lovers are drawn intensely and irrevocably toward each other despite the cards stacked against them.

I loved the setting. One hundred years ago Manhattan was only partly developed, the rest of it was untouched wilderness. It was fascinating to picture swamps inhabited by no one but a crazy hermit and wolves where now there are endless streets filled with office buildings of dizzying heights.

My Recommendation: A must read for Hoffman fans. Also, anyone who enjoyed Night Circus should pick it up.

For Next Time: Out of the Easy by Ruta Sepetys

My Writing Life: The In Between Times

While finishing my book I was busy. Not regular busy, I was crazy-nose-to-the-keyboard-busy, writing and revising every free minute I had. For weeks my eyes were twitching and I had the craziest dreams. I wasn't even reading as much as usual. Finally my draft was ready and I sent it to two betas. I decided I'd take a break from that story. The plan was not to look at it for six weeks (this is the Stephen King advice). Hopefully when I pick my book up again, it will be with fresh eyes that can see the forest and the trees and all the plot points that need tweaking.

Actual trees

So I relaxed into the in-between life finally done writing and not yet editing. I tried to soak up the sense of pride at completing something. Surprisingly that worked for a few days. I watched Orphan Black and gave my dog a haircut. I had a list of books to read, some as research for my book. Tragically, despite how I tried to occupy my time I was left with too much of it. Maybe I was too adjusted to the hectic writing schedule or simply cannot handle being an inbetweener.* My mind itched to open the word document to start revising. I remembered things I need to clarify and I'm pretty sure I forgot to tie up one kind of important subplot. My betas are going to kill me. There was no way I'd make it six weeks without writing, so I pulled out an ongoing list of story ideas. I wrote a few lines summarizing what I would do with each one until I felt that tug and knew I'd found my next project.

Initially I thought starting a new book while another one is still in progress would be confusing. I was afraid I'd lose interest in my completed story and when the six weeks were up I'd ignore revisions in favor of writing the new book. Writing generally being more pleasant than revising which requires harsh self assessment. I suppose that could still happen, but I'm crossing my fingers that it doesn't. Possibly the new book will keep me optimistic when it's time to switch to editing mode or when I'm reviewing notes from betas asking, whatever happened to that pivotal character who is missing from the end of the book? Seriously, so sorry about that.




Disclaimer: Inbetweener is not a word. The Inbetweeners was a British sitcom about teenage boys. I have never been British or a teenage boy.

Fact Facing, Overcoming Doubt, and the Truth about Writer's Block

Writers are a sensitive bunch and some days I feel like I'm the most sensitive one. Not that I'm always doubting myself. It comes in bursts of moroseness. The confidence and pride also comes and those are the best times. Those are the times when I tie up my manuscript in a pretty word document and send it off to family and friends. There's still fear that they won't like it, but I know none of my nearest and dearest would be mean even if they thought it was dreadful.

That's how I felt when I sent my YA Fantasy to a few friends and two of my sisters (also considered friends). I was prepared for lukewarm reactions though I hoped they'd enjoy it. What I wasn't prepared for was for some of them to not read it at all. I sent it to nine people and four of them didn't read it. The worst part was, two of the ones who didn't read it were my sisters. Years ago, someone had told me not to send my sisters copies because they wouldn't read it. I had more faith in my sisters than that, of course they'd read it! They're my sisters. It's been almost two years since I sent them that manuscript and neither one of them has read it.

I've asked them why. They both say they want to. They intend to read it soon. They're going to start it tonight. They want to read it with their kids. There's no end to the promises but there's been no clue as to why they won't read it. 

At first, I didn't think much about it. Four of my friends enjoyed it and some even provided comments. I was busy working on another story. After a year though, it got to me. The doubt crept in and planted itself firmly in the part of myself I call on to write. Every time I sat down to work, I questioned my actions. "Why should I write books even my own sisters won't read?" Even my own sisters won't read. Even my own sisters won't read. The words formed an anti-mantra that would not stop until I closed my laptop and lost myself in a cup full of tea and a book full of another writer's words. A writer who's siblings undoubtedly read what they wrote.

I still wrote but less and less. The words came haltingly and I had no confidence or faith in them. I pitied my story that it fell into my hands rather than into the hands of someone who could tell it. People asked about my writing (though my sisters never did) and I just shook my head and said, "It's slow going." Slow was generous. All my time "working" was spent tweaking sentences I'd already written or refreshing my Facebook news feed. My book was progressing at the speed of sloth.

I felt ashamed, stupid, and a little angry. During the summer I tried to force a timeline to finish a first draft of my stagnant book, but I couldn't do it. I didn't want to do it. Far from bringing me joy, I was miserable at the thought of typing nonsense for no reason.

Everything is relative

In February, I visited my family in Florida. One night when just the two of us were driving back from Universal, my mother asked how my writing was going. I was honest. "It's not. I don't see the point of it," I said and explained how my confidence had been worn away. She was not pleased. I should mention that my mother has become an irritatingly agreeable person, so this was unexpected. "I thought you were stronger than that," she told me and she didn't stop there. My mom laid the truth out flat. If I wanted to write, I had to be tougher. Lots of people won't read my books and some people that do might passionately loathe them and post about it on the Internet. Yes, it hurts knowing that important people seem not to care about my writing, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't care about my writing anymore. As much as it sucked to hear it, I had to admit she had a point. 

A few days after, my friend Ashley, who did read my book, asked about the first book I ever wrote which had been shelved before anyone read it all the way through. A while ago, I had told her about the premise and now she wanted to read it. It was perfect timing. I gave that dusty, old manuscript a quick edit and sent it to her and my mom. The following day, I picked up the project I'd been ignoring and have been working on it every day. I stay up writing until I have no words left and my dog is grumbling for a walk. My thoughts drift to what the characters say if they were cramped into a crowded subway car with me on my way to work. I've received concerned looks from other passengers when I laugh out loud at their responses in my head. Maybe that makes me crazy, but don't feel crazy. I feel like I'm back.

With my mom enjoying a Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks

I believe now that it was a form of writer's block. I thought writer's block was not knowing what to write about, which sounds terrible enough, but not being able to write even with ideas pounding away inside of me was a different kind of horror. Block seems innocent compared to what I experienced. I had the Hoover Dam of writer's block. I wasn't depressed or miserable except for when I tried to write. I distracted myself with other hobbies and my friends, but I wasn't completely me during that time and I'm 100% me now. Only now I don't care if no one reads my book. I'm just happy to be writing and relieving the pressure that's been building up internally for so long.

Letting Go: It's a Process

I don't know why I need books the way I do. Obviously reading them is wonderful. Every book is a unique experience in a different world, an escape from reality, a journey into the unknown, and like George R.R. Martin* says, "A reader lives a thousand lives." I understand what I love about them, but I don't know why I need books around.  

Libraries make me feel like dancing too, Belle.

Once upon a time, I was a having horrible day. I was at work and needed to get out before I emotionally imploded. Lucky for me, there was a Barnes & Noble next door. I grabbed a Soy Chai Tea Latte and walked around the fiction and young adult sections. I ended up buying a gorgeous copy of Persuasion, my favorite Jane Austen. I don't know why the sight of books calms me, but it does and it didn't let me down on Monica's horrible day. There's so much to discover and experience in the world, too much to get caught up in the trivial annoyances and hiccups of daily life. Books are a tangible representation of all the world has to offer. Okay, I guess I just realized why I like having them around...

The flip-side to basking in their presence is getting nervous at the thought of parting with my books. When my friend mentioned her school's annual book drive, my first thought was going and increasing my collection. When she said they were accepting donations, I felt an irrational pulse of terror. 

Not my books!**

Fortunately for the school, I am a rational individual and (though it was with much trepidation) I decided to donate some. My shelves are overflowing and I can't stop buying more. Yes I have a Nook and I take advantage of the Boston Library's fabulous eBook loaning program, but I continue to buy new and used books. I just love them.

When I went through my 300+ books, I did my best to consider the ones I should keep. Those being the ones I thought I might read again or would be likely to loan to other readers. I came up with four that I was willing to part with...

I have problems. First world problems. Nerd girl problems. Ravenclaw problems. I could go on, but won't.

I gave myself a stern talking to about how important it is for affordable used books to be available, how great it is to support a wonderful local school, and how I probably wasn't going to read most of these books again. What was I doing really? Just hoarding the knowledge for myself, which isn't cool. Knowledge is power and I want to share that power. Plus hoarding is unhealthy and kind of weird. I mean it would be weirder if they were cats or VHS tapes of my favorite late night infomercials. Minimal level of weirdness aside, I went through my shelves again. 

The donate pile grew and grew until it contained about twenty books!

I felt great after I filled the huge tote bag with thousands of pages of goodness. Soon other people will enjoy these books. Three cheers for being charitable. Plus, now I've got some space on my shelves...

*But writers only live one, so maybe write a bit faster, okay Georgie?
**Those actually aren't my books. They belong to the Boston Public Library. They were also mostly in French, which Belle would have appreciated.

Book Report Monday: Half Broke Horses by Jeannette Walls

Title: Half Broke Horses

Author: Jeannette Walls

Genre: A True-Life Novel

Synopsis: Lily Casey Smith, this novel's feisty Texas protagonist, is a frontier teacher, a rancher, a rodeo rider, a poker player, and bootlegger. In Half Broke Horses, she survives droughts, tornados, floods, poverty, and whatever else fate can throw against her. Based on author Jeannette Walls's grandmother, Lily is a plausible character because she has a voice that synchronizes with her history. This novel lives up to the still gathering acclaim for Walls's novel The Glass Castle. 

(from Goodreads)

Why did I pick it up?: Years ago, I read The Glass Castle for a book club and I'd been meaning to pick up Half Broke Horses since I heard it came out. Yes, I've been meaning to read this for four years. I'm glad I got around to it.

Favorite Lines: "I hadn't been paying much attention to things like the sunrise, but that old sun had been coming up anyway. It didn't really care how I felt, it was going to rise and set regardless of whether I noticed it, and if I was going to enjoy it, that was up to me."

My Review: Similar to The Paris Wife, in that the story is a fictionalization of true events. Though in my opinion it's much better done in Half Broke Horses. Perhaps novelizing your own Grandmother's life is easier, plus I wasn't rooting for someone else the whole time. If you've read The Glass Castle, I think most people have, then you will most likely enjoy this story. There are little nuggets of references that foreshadow events that take place in Jeannette's memoir.

A Half Broke Horse, is a horse that has been caught and partially trained and then released back into the wild and its own natural devices. Lily who helped her father train horses before leaving home, is familiar with these horses who when caught again no enough to submit to a rider but also know they might escape again. Throughout the story she encounters people who are likewise only "half broke" and will never quite fit into society as a result. Anyone who has read The Glass Castle would see how Jeannette's parents are just like half broke horses.

I found the details about life in the South Western United States in the early 1900's to be fascinating. The lack of paved streets, indoor plumbing, electricity and everything I've never lived without seemed trying and it was insane to realize it really wasn't that long ago that the story is taking place. Lily lived in a rural part of Texas and late in a rural part of Arizona. People out in the more densely populated East, had electricity and running water much sooner. And just like I loved learning that when America was discovered the rest of the world was highly suspicious of the tomato, which they'd never seen before. They called it the witch's apple and said it was poisonous. Crazy, right? Well maybe it's just amusing to me. Similar to the mistrust of new foods, when Indoor plumbing was spreading across the country a lot of people were skeptical and grossed out. In Half Broke Horses people ask, "Isn't that unsanitary?" and "Who would do that in the house?"

There's no rush to finish the book, no great mystery waiting to be revealed., and yet the story held my interest. However, if you're the sort of reader who needs a strong reason to turn the page this probably isn't for you.

Recommendation: Fans of memoirs and anyone interested in settlements in America should check this out.

For Next Week: The Dovekeepers by Alice Hoffman