What the Heck is "Real" Reading?

My friend and writer, Marty Graham was in a bookstore reading through picture books to see what was out there, when she overheard a mother talking--lecturing--her son about his choice of preferred book. This is what Marty heard the mother say:

"That's not a real book."

And then Marty heard something behind her being moved back to a shelf. She wrote:

"By the time I turned to sneak my peak, mother and son were gone. The closest display was of paperback middle grades. I could have gone through them, or looked further (where had her voice come from? what shelf? what display?). I could have spent time looking for clues. Maybe it really hadn't been a book? But then...."

This is what Marty thought:

"I will never know. I stood a moment, thinking, 'that's what occurred in the children's book section at the Barnes and Noble Bookstore?. Fun to wonder, but So scary. So mysterious. Do you remember the famous line in the movie Crocodile Dundee, when Dundee unsheathes an incredible Australian wackywoo to a couple of NY Bronx street thugs?? He said: "That's no knife.........................THIS is a knife."

What the heck is a real book anyway? And should we really care what our children read as long as they are reading? My brother and I used to read the back of cereal boxes during breakfast--would the mother Marty overheard consider that "real" reading or "fake" reading? Honestly, what difference does what each of us chooses to read in our spare time make? Even  pornography--if you, me, we- want to read it, or trashy romance, or comic books who cares? (And if we tell the truth,  isn't learning  a  someone reads odd/surprising stuff  fun?)

Isn't our goal to teach them: our children, our citizens, our tax payers, our fellow humans--all of them--to read? So they can comprehend/access  information themselves...learn the facts...judge the situations (healthcare in the U.S. included)--and make informed decisions?  To that end, isn't it more beneficial for children to be entertained by reading--"real" and not "real" books alike (cereal boxes even)--so they will want to keep reading and by doing so learn to read better?

What is "real" reading? What is a "read" book? Should "real" really matter?

Oh my gosh! Look there! It's a book...with words....pictures...ideas....help! Quick! Someone....everyone....

LET THEM READ IT!

Vacation Reading

Today is the first day of Christmas vacation—the first real vacation I recall being on in years and years—since Max and Alexis were in diapers. I began it the way I spent so many hours of holidays past, before I had so many responsibilities. Back when I didn’t carry a daily calendar. When every hour wasn’t divided into time slots. When vacation truly began as soon as the last school bell rang. I woke early, before the sun but fully rested after a more-than full night’s sleep following more than a full day spent napping and resting and sitting on flights from Jakarta to Houston. I woke as I usually do with a sense of urgency accompanied by reluctance to stir from my cozy cocoon.

Most mornings I compromise. I stall for a few more minutes in my nest by mentally reviewing my day’s calendar. I note my list of to-dos for the day and the time needed for each task, then line them up against the ticking clock and my regular daily requirements: wash, dress, breakfast, morning calls back to family: Lexi, Mom, Max, any business calls (these jerk me right out of bed as they must be made early—often before 6). With each item my internal engine revs louder and faster until the buzzing propels me from the bed and on with the day.

While vacations may be holidays from regular routine, ours are usually scheduled: so much to see and do, so little time. Certainly the daily task list differs from the norm and might read something like: 8:30 scrumptious breakfast; 9:30 tour of some place spectacular; 12 lunch in a palace; swim on the beach; sunset cocktails…. It is still a chock-full calendar.

So, I woke this morning and as I do, stretched, enjoyed the warm coziness of the bed, sought a cool corner for my toes, and opened my mental calendar. The page turned but nothing popped up. My calendar page was blank—empty—bright white and waiting. Not  one appointment. Not one must do. And, because I was on the same side of the world as everyone on my usual morning call list, even it was blank (no one, no matter how much they loved me, would appreciate a call this early in the morning.) That’s when I realized I was truly, for the first time in adult history, on vacation-there were no great expectations. I turned on the light, picked up my book, Mr. Pip by Lloyd Jones, found my place and snuggled down for a cozy read.

I read all the time. Read for information. Read to see how other writers write. Read to discover what other writers are writing. And each night I climb into bed to read strictly for pleasure. However because I try to pack as much into each day as possible, this pleasure reading rarely lasts beyond a page.Today, in the wee small hours of the morning, I found myself reading and reading and reading on the way I used to when I was young. Back in middle school, my friend Theresa and I would spend our vacation afternoons holed up in her bedroom with records and Harlequin Romances. We’d play the same albums over and over while we read—timing our chapter turns so we finished at the same time. During vacations spent at my grandparents, I worked my way through their shelves of fiction, especially Reader’s Digest Condensed Readers—the places those stories took me.

Mr. Pip is set in Bougainville, a tropical island where, in the 60s, as a result of civil war brought about by unfair practices in the mining industry, results in all in a blockade of the island. Every non native evacuates—including medical personnel, teachers and clergy. The only white man left of the island, Mr. Watts (married to a local) takes it on himself to teach the children and each day reads a chapter from Great Expectations.

I must admit, today’s vacation reading wasn’t exactly like it used to be. I couldn’t entirely shake the feeling of having somewhere else to go, or something to do—but that may only have increased my enjoyment. At every chapter end—actually, at a spot right before the chapter end, where I could see an end coming and had to decide whether to put the book down at the chapter break or read on past it—I’d stop to consider if I was actually at leisure, with an empty calendar before me, or whether I’d forgotten some commitment. Then I smiled, rearranged the pillows and went back to my book.

I am loving vacation!

PinK Glove Dance

Employees at Providence St. Vincent Medial Center created this delightful video in support of breast cancer awareness--something women and men of all ages--including and especially their 40s--should screen for. Watch it! Pink Glove Dance.

Pounding My Breast-Because I Can...

Confession time: I avoid reading/hearing/watching the news. The news coverage often frightens me—and sickens me when responsible reporting is not practiced. I usually watch CNN while I work out. I figure, why not combine both not always pleasant but necessary tasks?  On one particularly stressful day last week, I was in the gym when a report came on regarding an “independent study” which concluded (and I paraphrase):  "mammograms and even self-examination is not necessary in women between the ages of 40 and 49.”  What bull! Who among us doesn’t know women—friends, relatives, neighbors, loved ones—who have battled breast cancer? Many of whom could have been spared if those nodules, lumps, irregularities had been detected earlier… sometimes, say in our loved one’s 40s? And because this “independent study” is hot news, meaning it has people—primarily women—anxious and concerned, it is getting so much airtime? How irresponsible and reckless of the media to televise this report—and worse, of Capitol Hill to give it any public consideration at all?  Certainly “independent studies” by reputable organizations should be read and considered. But shouldn’t that consideration be given prior to the report being publicly broadcasted and possibly misconstrued or interpreted to be “true”? And why now? In the midst of the U.S. health care reform debacle does challenging the need for breast examinations serve any person with breasts or loved ones with breasts best interests?

Yes! This is a “hot button” topic for me. Hotter still because I was viewing the coverage of this report—and the outcry against it by women who have had breast cancer—with my left breast bandaged. Thursday before last I had my usual, routine, annual, covered by insurance and recommended by my doctors—all of them—breast screening. This included a physical examination by my doctor, a mammogram, and because my doctor is cautious and informed, and because I have good health coverage, an ultra sound. During the ultra-sound (to detect irregularities not always detected by the other methods) my doctor noticed a nodule growing between layers of fat. The next day she removed it using vacuum assisted Mammatone.

On the same Friday I was having the nodule removed from my breast, my niece, Claire’s, mother-in-law was also having a growth removed from her breast. Diane is older than I am, and not fortunate to have the lump discovered as early as I did. So, while the procedure to remove the nodule in my breast was in-office, under local anesthetic, and resulted in a small bore hole closed with sterile-strips and bandaged, Diane’s procedure was major surgery, under general anesthetic, while her worried family waited anxiously to learn the results. Thank heaven we both received the screenings needed to find these lumps and we both could have them removed early and we both have good health care coverage.

My biggest concern—and all of our primary concern—should be what are the ramifications of this “study” receiving air time? What if someone hearing it actually take it seriously:  Some insurance company trying to cut costs? Some elected official working on health reform recommendations? Some scared, nervous woman who might welcome any excuse not to have a mammogram…not to make an inconvenient appointment during which she will have to strip down and have her breast painfully squished in hopes of not revealing anything suspicious? Some husband or son or brother who doesn’t want to think about breast health?

Because of these early-detection breast screenings—including mammograms, breast exams and ultra sound—Diane and I, and so many other women, have received the medical treatment we need to remove these growths. But happens if the recommendations of this “independent study” are taken seriously? What about other women—some much younger than either of us--with irregular breast tissue? What will their futures be?

Thanksgiving for Soldiers

Thanksgiving is tomorrow. Max is off to Tulsa to spend the holiday with his father and friends; Lexi is heading to Connecticut where she will share the day with Ryan's family; Curtis and I are gathering here in Jakarta for our 4th annual Expat Thanksgiving. Along with other friends living here without children, guests include singles in town for business and non-American friends we think might enjoy the celebration.

Last year, Shona Mason, a South African and first time Thanksgiving ritual participant, did her homework prior to arriving. "What about the Indians?" she asked. "The Pilgrims wouldn't have survived without them. Seems to me on Thanksgiving, the Pilgrims need to treat the Indians." Thus a new Thanksgiving tradition was born. Shona and I cut up papers. We wrote Pilgrim on half of them and Indians on the rest then dropped them into a hat. Because we are who we are by accident of birth, each attendee drew to see if he or she would be a Pilgrim or an Indian.

By way of thanks, the Pilgrims served the Indians dessert and entertained them with an impromptu song called, "No Place Like Jakarta for the Holidays." This small recognition was all in fun, but behind it is truth that should be recognized especially now: We owe so much to those who do for us, give for us, pave the way, make our world comfortable, safe, welcoming. While clinking glasses and gobbling gobblers this Thanksgiving, it feels good to take time to say thanks.

One group who deserve our gratitude are soldiers. Regardless of our own personal beliefs regarding these political conflicts, these soldiers and their families jeapordize their comfort and security for us.

Go to this website and do a great thing this Thanksgiving: www.LetsSayThanks.com. Send a card to those in our military. Whether you support the war(s) or not, these people are miles away from their families on Thanksgiving. Show them some love!

Give Thanks with warm hearts. Happy Thanksgiving, Kelly

International Letter Code-Chapter 3

Languages are not Curtis’s strong suit. But usually, by using a combination of gestures, hand signals, other words and by rephrasing he can make himself understood. Over the phone, names, especially his name, seem to be extremely difficult to get across. In Indonesian, the letter “C” is pronounced “Ch” and the hard “C” sound is indicated by using the letter “K.” If it were me, I would probably settle for having my name spelled “Kurtes” and pronounced correctly. But Curtis, being Curtis--the same Curtis who once told me “no, no one does call him or has called him ‘Curt,’ except for this father, that is, and his father is dead"--is very particular about his name.  So, in his ongoing battle to be understood, and correctly understood, Curtis has copied down the International Letter Code—two versions—and uses them when spelling out names. The other afternoon, thinking himself very clever, Curtis pulled out his International Letter Code to make a dinner reservation. “The name is Curtis. Curtis, as in Charlie-Uncle-Roger… and Bennett, spelled Bravo-Echo…”

When we arrived at the restaurant later, the maître de asked if we had a reservation. “Yes,” Curtis replied. Before he could begin to give his name, the maître de smiled:

“Oh, yes. Mr. Charlie, right this way…”

The International Letter Code worked so well, Curtis plans to use it when making all future reservations. From now on he’s going as Charlie Bravo.

What a Difference A Name Makes

Last Saturday, because I wasn't wearing my reading glasses, I misread a name in a magazine. I though the name was Tru-something. Curtis laughed and corrected me. That was that. I haven't a clue what the correct name was, who it belonged to, or why I read it. But I recall thinking what a powerful name True was. What it said about a parent who would name his/her child True. And what it would be like to have to grow up with and into that name the way the man in the Johnny Cash "my name is Sue/how do you do/you're gonna die" song did. I tucked the name in my I'm-going-to-use-that-someday brain file. Today, this morning, I was milling about, making calls, eating, drinking coffee, printing things, doing everything but pulling up the file with Otter Song to continue revisions, because I really, really didn't want to work on it anymore. I had reached a place where I was just sick of the whole mess. As far as I was concerned Lena, her mother, the otter and aquarium and the entire coast of California could crack off the way everyone is always threatening it will and I would have cheered. Damn the zillion hours and years I have already put into this story.

Finally, when there was absolutely nothing more I could pretend needed doing beside work, I opened the Otter Song file. Nothing had changed. It didn't send me. I had absolutely no desire to read on. I didn't care what Lena wanted or needed. What I really wanted to click the X and do something else--maybe go shopping.

Instead...

I clicked the Find and Replace function and changed the main character's name--in 492 places! (No, I did not go through them one at a time. Yes, I had been looking for ways to keep from working, but really....not even I am that desperate!)

ZIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!  With that click of a button, my main character went from boring to --interesting, exciting, even. It's as though she has suddenly come into her own. True is so much more now. She has a name to live up to. And I am charged with helping her realize her potential.

A rose by another other name might smell as sweet, but that's only if it compels one to sniff it.

It is all in a name.

Some weeks are better than others

Ah, the writing life! It's pure joy when the stars align and all the world is  the next scene and brilliant prose. And then there are weeks like this. I belong to a writer support group comprised of some members of my VC graduating class. Our commitment includes weekly check-ins: group e-mails in which we share: how many pages/chapters/sentences we wrote that week, what we are discovering, problems with our writing, pitfalls and successes. It's a way to stay honest, stay committed, stay motivated, and stay connected. Usually I wait until some of the others check-in before posting my report. This week, I decided to go first:

Hi all,

I'm sitting here with a glass of chardonay and a back of chips, wishing you were here with me. It's already Wednesday and guess what I've accomplished writing-wise this week? Nothing. I haven't pulled out Otter Song to continue revisions. I haven't done my morning pages. I haven't expanded on any of those great picture book ideas or created new ones--which means I have failed at my commitment to generating-picture book-ideas month. I haven't finished reading a book--or read more than 10 pages of anything. What is worse, at this very moment, I haven't a clue when I'll get back in the game. But I am thinking about finishing something--this bag of chips.

You have got to have had more forward motion than I have this week. I'm looking forward to reading about it.

Cheers (raised glass), Kelly

Oh, and since I haven't posted a blog entry for this week, I think I'm going to post this message--that will be 2 things I finish...3:  wine, chips, and a blog posting.

Blog P.S. The chips are gone...