An E-Reader Saved My Life

My husband bought me a first-generation Amazon Kindle for my first birthday that we celebrated together, two years ago. I had never had a chance to consider an e-reader, and the gift was a complete surprise. He knew I loved books, and he felt that the potential to cram most of my library into the size of one normal book had to be an advantage, since he moves around so much. That part of it has certainly come true. Now that my library is in storage in Pennsylvania, it doesn't feel right to add weight to the stuff we have with us, and lately if it's not available for my e-reader, I just don't buy it.

The Kindle inspired me to dust off and publish my book, Tree/House, mostly because it didn't cost me anything. I've only sold one digital copy, because it came out before anyone else actually had an e-reader, and now it's perceived as old. (It's actually perennial, ever fresh, and still available in paperback also!)

The Kindle has afforded us many hours of unexpectedly shared pleasure because I like to supplement my husband's literary diet by reading aloud to him. I already had a couple of different copies of The Princess Bride, but when I wanted to read it to my husband, they were buried in boxes without labels, and it was just easier to "whispernet" it to my Kindle. (That's a book I would buy 1,000 times if necessary.) When the local library didn't have the last installment of His Dark Materials, we had no qualms getting the e-version of that, too. Most recently, I couldn't help sharing so many delightful passages from Bill Bryson's At Home with my husband that he demanded we read the entire thing together.

Most dramatically, I happened to take my new Kindle with me on my fated trip to Spain in August 2008 (see an earlier post on this). I only had maybe ten books on it, and I couldn't download new things or even charge the battery, but thank goodness I had something to do on those couple of long nights waiting for the American Embassy to open! The fact that The Power of Now was the last book I'd bought for it was probably the decisive factor in my not having a complete nervous breakdown when my purse was taken.

I'm a bit miffed that there are newer versions of the Kindle, for much less money than before, with many more features. But these new versions, and the increasing number of viable competitors, are a sign that book technology is finally taking the next step. There is a buzz in the book community now about the meaning of e-readers and possible demise of printed books. I love books -- physical, pulpy, inky -- but I'm thankful that e-readers are an option now that my husband has introduced me to this semi-nomadic lifestyle. I can still be nearly as literary as before, and a million times as moveable. Given a choice, however, I would have access to an enormous, well-organized, beautifully architectured, physical library. Someday. 

I Said I Wanted to Work With Books

I've been working the textbook buyback rush at the University of Arizona Bookstore for a week and half now. Unknown lucky sods get to do the buying and inspection. At that point, they ship the heavy, dusty books to a group of us, on dollies, or in wheeled tubs. We put those lovely stickers that say "used" on them and then try with all our might to put them in the right place. That means finding out whether it's been ordered for the spring semester or not, and tens of thousands of other variables I would never have imagined only two weeks ago.


The burden is mostly physical: standing all day, walking miles across hard floors, lifting, bending, crouching, etc. We also have a heavy burden on our memories, as we need to recall exactly where things belong or cost ourselves a lot of extra physical effort.  I'm impressed with how much I remember. I'm mostly in the rhythm of things now, so I don't feel as desperate or soulless as when I started.

The first day was really hard because all these wonderful books were coming under my nose, and yet I couldn't stick my nose into them! The pace is much too fast for a contemplative perusal of each interesting bit of course material that comes my way. When I was a cataloger at the library in Boston, at least it was understood that you could set some books aside for yourself before finishing up the records and sending them out for the public. We were all bibliophiles there, and it was an unspoken benefit of the job. In this situation, books are whisked out from between one's fingers -- to occupy their spaces on the textbook shelves so the avid students can find them, or to languish among other things that have been purchased "on spec," or in the overstock piles -- long before one can do more than get a sense that one would like to continue reading. The longing was so great that first day, I thought I might have to quit on the grounds of psychological torture.

Then there are the myriad assaults on the sensibilities of those who love the book-as-object: torn and folded covers (book drop accidents); mutilated, replaced, detached spines; excessive note-taking in margins; dog-eared-ness; signs of being dropped in the bathtub; and other scenes too gruesome for this blog. Perhaps even more depressing, we frequently see books still in the plastic shrink-wrap, sent to us as if they've been thoroughly used. In these cases, perhaps the students meant to return the books new because they weren't taking the class, after all, but didn't get around to it in time, thus costing Mom and Dad hundreds of dollars. I usually assume they were coasting, and never opened the book, all the while hoping to get an "A" anyway. I always send loving thoughts to those books, sending them on to, I hope, be truly loved the next time around.

One day, I will be able to actually start reading a book, never mind finishing one! In the meantime, please look the other way if I've developed a habit of leafing through the pages as I scurry across the warehouse. A single sentence is better than silence.

New Short-Short Story Now Published



Notice the warning sign on each front leg.

Certified by Guiness, I have no doubt, the photo shows the World's Largest Rocking Chair. We passed by this amazing piece of welding in Missouri on our way from Pennsylvania to Arizona. It actually took a couple of tries for us to find it. I guess we weren't expecting it to be right there in the open, because we saw the sign on the chairback, and drove right by, not registering that it was the actual rocking chair until we swung back around.

We parked right in front of it, thus getting the full force of the advice painted at eye level on each leg: "Please Don't Climb." What were these people thinking? What's the point of the world's largest rocking chair if you can't sit in it and take a picture to show your envious friends? The variety store was doing a brisk business in wood carvings and local wines.

It didn't take a lot of imagination to come up with the micro-story "The World's Largest Rocking Chair (Accident Report)." I thought about it in the context of the events of 2010, and challenged myself to keep the story under 420 spaces while including the name "Eyjafjallajöküll," and the incomparable Short, Fast, and Deadly has included the result in its "Year in Review." Enjoy it here!

Love in This Crazy World

Before we left Pennsylvania, I saw that a certain lit mag was inviting submissions on love. They recognized that there weren't a lot of love stories out there these days. What a great idea! Let's put some love back into the world! I came up woth a great idea for an allegory for me and my husband: a couple goes through disaster after disaster, but they're ever so happy, as long as they're together.

I think I wrote it in a lively, clever way, with lots of banter and crazy random sutff happening -- just the sort of thing I would like to read. At under 1000 words, it wouldn't ruin anyone's day to read it, even if they didn't like it. Of course, the lit mag in question didn't take it. I've submitted it to a couple of other places already, only to be rejected. I've gotten feedback from it that really only shows that the editors didn't "get" it, they had no idea what the point of the story was.

Maybe people don't get love anymore?

Maybe it's not as fun to read as I thought?

In the absence of a workshop (I hope to correct that very soon) or any other rmeaningful advice, I must stay true to my vision.

So, it looks like I'm left with yet another wonderful short story, floating around in the ether in hopes of finding an audience, somewhere, somehow. I won't give up on this little story any more easily than I would give up on my husband. Try, try, again.

Gila Monsters Meet You At The Airport

I was in the University of Arizona bookstore, gearing up for an interview, when I saw the book Gila Monsters Meet You At The Airport in a display of local children's books. It's the quintessential guide to gaining perspective, especially in the context of having to move to a new place you know nothing about. It contrasts the eastern and western United States, hinting that the really important things are the same everywhere. Mainly, it pokes gentle fun at people's assumptions about places they've never been and shows that you, the reader, can fit in and make new friends anywhere.

Like the main character, I was established on the East Coast and had every intention of staying there "forever." I was born in California, but through a series of choices, I have come to prefer crowded streets full of unfriendly people and piles of dirty snow as if I had always lived there. Rationally, I knew our move West was necessary, but I couldn't help facing it with some trepidation. Can I adjust to Western ways of thinking and acting? Will Arizona feel like home within a reasonable amount of time?

According to Gila Monsters author, Marjorie Weinman Sharmat, I have nothing to worry about. I wish I could just take her at her word and have done with it. I start at my new (temporary) job tomorrow. It should give me a swift sense of belonging. I will have to squeeze in time for writing between textbooks and students. Wish me luck!

Without Language in Córdoba

"Without Language in Córdoba" is one of my favorite poems I ever wrote. Now you can read it in its entirety in the amazingly high quality Apparatus Magazine! Please also see a photographic preview at YouTube.

The theme of the issue is "Translation," a theme dear to my heart. Interpreted widely, it pertains to people trying to communicate in any way they can, and so encompasses most of human experience.

The poem came to me during a study abroad experience in Córdoba, Spain. As we realized more every day after we got there, Córdoba was the original melting pot. In spite of the discomforts it implied, the blending of peoples, languages and cultures created an experience so astoundingly beautiful, it can still be felt today in the air that passes through.

My room mate (and best friend) was having a tough time. She loved Spain (I like to think I had something to do with that) but October is always emotionally raw for her. One day she just got up and went for a walk while it was still dark outside, and contemplated the serenity of the Roman Bridge in the early morning light. By the time I woke up, she was back and telling me about the adventures she'd had. Anywhere else, they might have been commonplace, but the setting made them almost mystical.

Only my friend can say what parts of her walk I made up myself for the poem. I've forgotten, because with time, the poem becomes the reality. "Without Language in Córdoba" honors her expedition: the finding of something extraordinary right there in her surroundings; the way she felt she was beginning to belong to this place she had arrived in only weeks before; and, a personal favorite theme, the inability of words (in any language) to fully comprehend experience. With that in mind, I use empty space and translations of place names that seemed comical to us at the time, and leave "madrugada" (sunrise, daybreak, etc) untranslated. I had fun dicing up words to show their origins: "break/ fast."

In workshop, the other members were sorely disappointed to hear that I wasn't writing about something that happened to me personally. I think one of them claimed she would continue pretending. That's absolutely fine. I don't think the poem is injured, no matter who the subject is. What is imagination for if not to bring vivid experiences to people who never had them?

Take a look at the poem here. I'll also add the link to my "famous publications" page.
"Without Language in Córdoba" is one of the centerpieces of my collection Dusk Before Dawn.

Things and Ghosts

The hardest part about making this recent move was leaving most of my things -- books, files, furniture, and homey amusements -- in storage, taking with us to Arizona only what would fit into our compact car.

I'm not especially materialistic, but my stuff has a way of making me feel comfortable, like I'm in the right place, and that the creativity can flow. I was terribly envious of Barbara Briggs Ward's setup when she told me about it for her November 26 interview! Imagine, a place to settle down, to have a chance to position objects to their best advantage, to remain undisturbed.

One reason objects help me feel at home is that just about everything in my household has its own story, and those are important parts of my story. For example, a slightly battered, ordinary-looking floor lamp I've left in storage in Pennsylvania came to me when I moved into a studio apartment for the first time. When I first got to Boston, I moved in with room mates from some long-forgotten listing service, and all the lighting was already in the house. A very kind supervisor of mine had agreed to drive me over to the new place because I didn't have a car and the movers claimed they couldn't bring me with them in the cab. So all four of us drove ahead of the movers that day: Margie's husband, Margie (my supervisor), me, and the lamp she no longer needed, because she didn't want me to be in the dark in the new place. So, since September 2001, that lamp has been known as "Margie's lamp" in honor of her kindness, and no way would I willingly give it up. When I look at it, I see Margie and all the good times we had at that wonderful job.

Other objects contain within them the spirit of authority. When my grandmother gave me a set of kitchen utensils for my first wedding in 2004, she said, "That is the best whisk you will ever use." No ifs, ands, or buts. That whisk still receives the utmost respect and care, and in my house, it is known as "The Best Whisk in the World," when it's not languishing in storage, that is. Thanks, Grama. I think of you every time I use any of those utensils.

I drove my husband crazy during the moving process. Every time he would pick up a seemingly worthless object, I would cry, "I got that in Spain!" or recite some more complex history, plain as day to me, and he would know that it was too important to throw away. I love my husband beyond belief, but we are opposites in this regard. He's moved so many times that he has whittled his possessions down to the utterly necessary. If it weren't for me, he could pack up and leave in a sub-compact car in about two hours. He says the memories are in his head. His past is never in evidence, and I'm sure that's one reason he's so eternally ageless to me.

His attitude seems very healthy, whereas I have always considered memory to be outside myself. Consider the wonders logged in my childhood diaries: events I would never have been able to recall, in full detail! Also, my paternal grandmother died after the protracted horror that is Alzheimer's disease, and my dad was diagnosed with early onset dementia seven years ago, practically securing a similar fate for him. I always think that if I were to meet with that demon, my things and all the memories they so obviously contain would help me recognize the world and maybe stay in it a little longer. Just a theory.

Oh, the memories embedded in my captain's bunk! It's a twin bed with two drawers and an open storage area underneath that I got to sleep in when I was very young. The construction is entirely modular, so the  biggest piece is the mattress (not the original one anymore!) and it's been easy to take everywhere. Since I've been married, I've used it as a couch/storage area in my study, a place to take naps, and a visitor's bed. It's seen every aspect of my life, except the times I lived in England and Spain. Because it's been moved around so much, the bed frame has seen better days, but I don't usually see its flaws. It has its own presence, made up of so many witnessed events.

It is this presence that brings me, finally, to a concept often talked about on Ghost Hunters. I started watching the show because the guys are from Rhode Island, a rapturously beautiful state that I miss terribly. I kept watching because they often capture amazing audio clips that suggest the persistence of spirit. The concept that pertains here is the reason for residual haunting. They suggest that certain objects, which may have been involved in traumatic experiences or just really loved and cared for by their long-passed owners, retain something of those experiences and emotions. We in the present day then witness that pent-up energy as movement, feelings, or sounds.

My stuff is probably causing at least one residual haunting at the storage unit in Pennsylvania as we speak.

I like the concept. It validates the weighty importance I feel when I walk into a medieval manuscript library. There have been few objects in the world made with more deliberation and care, and then so appreciated and loved. I positively vibrate around medieval books, but I've never been able to articulate the phenomenon to ask anyone else if they feel it, too.

My dad's woodworking projects and my mum's sewing are in the running for the title of most cared for objects. So it comforts me to think that the items my parents have crafted for me will continue to emanate their love and skill even if (God forbid!) I can never go back and get them. Even when they pass away. Even when I do.