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When we meet criminal defense attorney Harrison J. Walker–known as “Jaywalker”–he has just been suspended from practice for three years. He has a stellar acquittal rate, and is highly regarded for a guy who gets bad guys off, but he has bent the rules too far and too many times, so some sort of sanction was in order. He has been allowed to finish out the most pressing of his pending cases, of which, Samara Tannenbaum’s–the tenth–will be the most challenging. Samara (”young, petite, and sexy as hell”–go figure!) is accused of murdering her much older billionaire husband after taking out a term life insurance policy on him. She says she didn’t do it. Then she says she was framed. And, truly, there isn’t much else here.

The biggest problem with The Tenth Case (Joseph Teller) is that it tells rather than shows, the first lesson we learn in writing (and no pun intended). Most legal and detective thrillers develop from a pretty basic premise, but the good ones are marked by memorable characters, tight plot twists, the ability of the author to build tension–or, ideally, all of the above. Teller formulated a character with a good backstory in Jaywalker, but then proceeded to “tell readers what happened”, instead of allowing it to happen to us or with us and the characters. Teller is a veteran DEA agent and criminal defense attorney, so he knows his subject matter. His second book is due out in 2009; it will be interesting to see if he will have found a way to let his characters walk the walk…

I just finished listening to an audio recording of Maeve Binchy’s Nights of Rain and Stars. It was a tricky read, the story of a group of travelers who meet in a taverna in a small Greek village on the day of a tragedy there and become fast friends; tricky, because they are German, Irish, English and American, which, in addition to the Greek accent, is dialect gymnastics for a voice talent. It wasn’t Binchy’s best, but it was a safe choice from the library, when I went looking for something to fill the time on a long distance drive. It did get me thinking, however, that Maeve Binchy is one of a few writers that I look to for comfort reading, much like comfort food, to escape to a non-threatening, picturesque environment, and into the lives of others for awhile–no mystery, minor drama, and a reasonably happy conclusion. Much like the children’s books, the ones with houses and gardens I coveted in my youth, that I blogged about earlier–Miss Suzy’s squirrel’s nest and Miss Mary’s garden–these books are of a different genre in my mental library, though they would certainly overlap in general consumption and classification. The Secret Garden. Gone with the Wind. Those were certainly the two that I resonate from my youth, the only books I have read again and again, and not for the complicated literary development! As the fall has finally begun to take hold, and winter begins to seem possible, if only for the constant K-mart layaway commercials, I imagine myself in imaginary window seats with plump cushions, looking out on stormy skies (I always read Gone with the Wind during Winter Break)….but now I would be reading Binchy (the older stuff: Glass Lake, Evening Class, Circle of Friends), or Rosamund Pilcher. Better for me than comfort food…Who are your comfort writers..?

Julia Glass wanted to start her talk with a mom story. “Not a hockey-mom story,” she quipped, “Not even a soccer-mom story.” Julia Glass, it seems, is a badminton-mom. Who knew? For those who live in the fife-and-drum towns of Massachusetts this may be commonplace, but in California it seems novel and quirky, as did Glass. She was the second speaker in this season California Lectures series, after Garrison Keillor (which she felt was a tough act to follow, but which she measured up to beautifully, in my opinion). Her “mom story,” an anecdote about something that happened with her 9 and 12 year old boys at dinner, led into the idea that she has been writing stories about herself and her sister over the years, which have culminated in her latest book, I See You Everywhere. She was quick to point of that the book is not a memoir; though it does contain many elements of their experiences and relationship, it also contains much fictionalization. It is not exactly a novel, not exactly a collection of stories, but something she prefers not to catagorize, though she knows that packaging is inevitable in media. Her sister committed suicide just after one of the stories Glass had written about them won a prestigious prize, the first of the stories that had. That story, or at least those characters, went on to become I See You Everywhere, so one can only imagine what the proces of bringing it to fruition has been like.

Julia Glass’s debut novel, The Three Junes, was also a bit like a story collection. I read it when it came out, some six years ago and liked it, though I know some people found it dull. She’s written another, The Whole World Over, which I’m curious about, partly because it carries over a character from The Three Junes, and partly because it sounds like the only book that isn’t stories cobbled together, making it a bit of a departure for the writer who says she writes short stories that just seem to get out of hand.

I can’t remember falling so effortlessly into a book as I did this week into An American Wife (Curtis Sittenfeld). The odd thing is, the subject matter is fairly mundane–a young woman in a smalltown in Wisconsin writing about her coming of age–but before I knew it, I was a hundred pages in. In fact, I had read a short review of the book in a magazine that described it as a thinly veiled, fictionalized biography of Laura Bush, and, although the review was positive, decided initially that I wasn’t all that interested in the life and times of the First Lady. It was only later, when it was offered up for free by Amazon Vine that I reconsidered, thinking it might be a book people would be discussing. Having read it in its entirety now, I have to say that the most standout thing about the novel is the comfortable, fluid style of the the writer, making it so much easier to continue than to abandon the story.

I don’t know enough about the Bush family or Laura Bush’s heritage to know how aligned with their story this novel is. Certainly it is easy to imagine George W. with the mannerisms and dialogue of the character called Charlie Blackwell, though Blackwell’s family hails from Wisconsin. Obviously, that this president leads the country into war after a terrorist attack, and receives criticism for it is a nod to the current administration, but I don’t know whether the more personal aspects of the story are based in truth; if so, that is interesting in itself. Speculation aside, American Wife began strong, a first person account of a young woman called Alice in a small town in the 50s and 60s, who loved books, and already struggled to reconcile her desire to be independent with her desire to have a husband and children, and the traditional life she had been raised to love. Somehow, almost accidentally, it seems–although Alice would not abdicate responsibility–she ends up married to the President of the United States. She is never really comfortable with this turn of events. In fact, Alice never seems entirely comfortable with anything, but is somehow sympathetic nonetheless.

The novel is divided by addresses, rather than chapters, and runs to nearly 600 pages. For me, all was well until the final segment, the one at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, when the self-reflective memoir style seemed to deteriorate into an agitated diary of self-doubt and defensiveness. Even had the book been written in the style of a diary–it was not–the later pages would have reflected the maturity of a 60 year old woman versus the teen who began the writing, so, after such a lengthy commitment, the end was somewhat abrupt and unsatisfying. That said, I can’t remember falling so effortlessly into a book as I did this week into An American Wife…

I saw a really good French film, a thriller, the other day. Tell No One follows the life of a pediatrician whose wife is murdered as the couple finish a romantic swim in a secluded pond. Years later, on the anniversary of their first kiss, he receives an email with a live video feed that appears to be of his late wife. He is, understandably, shocked, confused, and anxious to prove the authenticity of the image. Not so simple, d’accord! It quickly becomes difficult to weed out the good from the bad guys, the lies from the truth, and it’s somehow all the more thrilling because it takes place in Versailles, which is far more beautiful a backdrop for evil than, say, Chicago or New York. I so seldom get to movies in the theater anymore–especially indie and foreign films, which I used to review for a living–and I was was quite pleased with this one. And then….Imagine my surprise when, as the credits rolled, I saw that the film had been based on a book by none other than Harlen Coben! Shut. Up. I probably read the book, too. Coben writes great stuff, stuff you can read in a day or two. I’m not surprised I didn’t remember the story–the book came out in 2002–but I usually get that weird feeling of deja vu when the clues start to come together. Perhaps I was too intent on the subtitles and scenery to wander that way. Either way, Tell No One is a fabulous film based on a book–a rare and wonderful thing. And probably a book worth devoting a day to as well.

I don’t know why I feel this obligation to mention it when a book I don’t like was given to me by someone else, but I do. Somehow the disclaimer seems to make me feel better than had I purchased the book with my own money, chosen it with great intent. This defensiveness–because I’m starting to see it that way, and I’m not thrilled with this newfound clarity–turns up in other areas of my life unnecessarily as well. Huh. Blogging, once again the poor woman’s psychotherapy.

Anyway, the latest book I’m disclaiming is Love in the Present Tense by Catherine Ryan Hyde, author of Pay It Forward, a concept I embrace and advocate tirelessly, but a book I have not read. I saw the movie–great concept, average film. Love in the Present Tense is a novel composed really of three short stories, or three perspectives of the life of a young man named Leonard, whose mother became pregnant with him at thirteen and seemingly abandoned him when he was five. During her short time with him, however, his mother managed to infuse Leonard with a deep sense of love, that he carries with him. It is a short sweet novel, but not as profound as the cover blurbs led me to believe. This is what happens with books I receive randomly from outside sources: I read and am frequently disappointed by the cover blurbs. I really need to blog through this…

It took me so long to slog through the last book–I will not give up unless it is truly horrible, which some say is unvaluing my time, but I can’t seem to quit doing–that I was really ready for something mindless and entertaining. Got it. The Killing Hour by Lisa Gardner (”Summertime and the Killing is Easy”) came out in 2003. A pocket edition was mixed in with some books I got back from being on loan to a friend, which confused me at first, since I so often forget stuff I’ve read, that I had to stiff around it a few times before deciding it was likely new to me.

The Killing Hour is a straight ahead FBI-type thriller centered around a serial killer who is playing a cat and mouse game, leaving notes and clues, seemingly to do with ecology, though this was a real stretch for the author, in my book. Nothing really new here, but the story kept me guessing, had good forward momentum, and allowed me a breather from more intellectual pursuits. I would definitely keep Gardner–who, according to her bio, sold her first novel at 20–on my list for vacation and light reading.

When my son was younger, we lived and died by The Magic Treehouse series, written by Mary Pope Osborne. They start out as great books to read aloud and become books the child can read alone, and there are supplemental “field guides” and such to go along. The books incorporate lessons in culture and history in each adventure. There are now many books in the series (numbered, thank heavens), but, as I recall, they are framed in groups of four, so do a little research before you buy.

Far and away my favorite books in a long time were/are A Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snicket (aka Daniel Handler). Handler uses much literary word play, along with morbid humor and dry wit in his dreary tales of doomed orphans. These books may be more fun for adults than kids, even, but my son liked them. Even better are the audio books read by Tim Curry, who is brilliant!

Great books about books that still feature fabulous charaters engaged in great adventure are Cornelia Funke’s Inkheart series (Inkheart, Inkspell, Inkdeath). From amazon.com about Inkheart:

“Meggie’s father, Mo, has an wonderful and sometimes terrible ability. When he reads aloud from books, he brings the characters to life–literally. Mo discovered his power when Meggie was just a baby. He read so lyrically from the the book Inkheart, that several of the book’s wicked characters ended up blinking and cursing on his cottage floor. Then Mo discovered something even worse–when he read Capricorn and his henchmen out of Inkheart, he accidentally read Meggie’s mother in.”

Funke’s Dragonslayer and The Thief Lord are also good picks.

In addition to Funke’s work, tops on my son’s Christmas list is the Inheritance Cycle by Christopher Paolini: Eragon, Eldest, and the recently released Brisingr. Paolini began writing this epic dragon saga when he graduated from high school at 15.

Happy shopping!

With holidays approaching, I thought I’d devote some space to a few of my kid favorites. If I had unlimited funds and unlimited space, I’d buy unlimited kids books–but then I’d want unlimited kids to read to, which presents another problem entirely.

The Runaway Bunny, by Margaret Wise Brown, (author of classic board book Goodnight Moon) is a classic, never out of print, and always fun to read. The little bunny decides to run away and mother bunny says she’ll go after him, with the escape and rescue becoming more ridiculous each time. This is for little ones through about pre-school age.

Guess How Much I Love You, by Sam Bratney, is along the same line, but it features a daddy and his little bunny, upping the ante on who loves the other more. Very cute illustrations and silly scenarios.

Miss Rumphius, by Barbara Cooney, is a book that was given to me as a gift by one of my friends, that also happens to be a wonderful children’s book. It is the tale of an old woman whose goal in life is to make the world more beautiful and to share that vision with others. I just discovered that there are notecards inspired by the illustrations in this book, as well. It is recommended for ages 4-8, but makes a lovely gift for all ages.

One of my all-time favorite children’s authors is Australian Graeme Base. He creates clever, creative books with over-the-top illustrations that are so much fun to share with kids. My favorite is The Sign of the Seahorse, which is an underwater tale of crime, drama and intrigue, written like an opera in acts and verses. My second favorite is The Eleventh Hour, a mystery with clues to be followed and solved. Kids as young as kindergarten will enjoy the stories, but they will grasp more of the humor and innuendo as they grow older, which also makes storytime more fun for the grown-ups.

Good reads for the tween set still to come…

It’s a question that has to come up fairly regularly in the publishing community, and certainly in the recovery world: how much of what I remember really happened the way I remember it? David Carr decided to use his skills as an investigative reporter to investigate his own life. Instead of just writing his memoir of addiction from memory, he took a video camera, pulled legal and medical records, and crisscrossed the country tracking down old sources, dealers, family and friends to gain a different perspective on what those coke snorting, crack smoking, hard-drinking years were like from the other side. The result is The Night of the Gun.

“A drunk or a junkie will end up finding fellow travelers in the course of things. If you are a drunk, the guy down the bar who falls off his stool and then gets up, sits down, and orders another is your friend. He may be a peckerwood whomakes speeches about the Twins or the Vikings or the mayor, but he is, after a fashion, your guy. In the same way, an addict will find his or her own level and his or her tribe to go with it. As in a lot of cities in the mid-to-late eighties, coke was ubiqutous in Minneapolis. But while vast swatches of people did a line here or there, there was a self-selected tribe who did little else.”

Unfortunately, reporting on one’s addiction seems to be a lot less interesting than remembering it firsthand. What the memoir gained in accuracy, it lost in intimacy and raw emotion. The most interesting tidbit for me turned out to be Carr’s high praise for his buddy Tom Arnold, whom he credits with being one of the most solid and supportive people in recovery he has known. His memoir I’d like to read!